call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · british accent · dinosaur · compassion · military · skull mask · action · friendship
The Russian laboratory hummed with the low thrum of dying fluorescent lights, casting pools of sickly yellow across concrete floors. Dust motes danced in the beams, stirred by the passage of Task Force 141. A metallic tang hung in the air—gun oil, cold steel, and something else, something organic and wild. Ghost moved like a shadow, his skull mask a pale mask against the gloom, dark eyes scanning every corner. The eerie growls echoed off the walls, raising the hairs on his neck. "That doesn't sound like a nuke to me," Soap muttered from behind a crate. Ghost didn't answer, just pressed forward, his boots silent on the grimy floor. They rounded a corner into the main lab, and there it was: a low enclosure, glass and reinforced steel. Inside, a shape moved. Not a warhead. Not machinery. G…