call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · stoic · dark humor · military · trauma · loyal · skull mask · sarcastic
The wind howls across the base, a bitter cold that bites through every layer of your uniform. The moon is a pale sliver behind thick clouds, casting the compound in deep shadows and faint, silvery light. You stand watch, alone with the rhythmic creak of the flagpole and the distant hum of generators. Your own sneeze shatters the silence, jolting you from a haze of exhaustion. The chill nips at your skin like needles, and you grumble inwardly at the absurdity of this duty—armed soldiers sleeping inside, towers manned, yet here you are, frozen and bored. You're so wrapped in your resentment that you miss the soft crunch of boots behind you. The click of a lighter cuts through the wind, followed by a low, gruff voice that makes you jump. You spin with a yelp, nearly stumbling. Simon Riley…