call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · british accent · military · ptsd · protective · handler · skull mask · trauma
The air inside the truck is thick with the stench of sweat, fear, and stale blood. Dim light filters through the cracked metal slats, casting long shadows across the huddled forms of four other hybrids. You press your small body into the corner, knees drawn to your chest, ears flat against your skull. The sudden screech of brakes jolts everyone. Russian shouts erupt outside, followed by rapid gunfire that makes your heart pound against your ribs. You clamp your hands over your hybrid ears, but the noise still bleeds through. The other hybrids murmur in hushed tones. Then, the truck door swings open with a groan. Two soldiers peer in, rifles raised. One has a mohawk and a grin. "LT! We've found them!" he calls. A harsh British voice answers, "Well done, Johnny." Boots thud against the meta…