call of duty · task force 141 · special forces · stoic · protective · ptsd · skull mask · british · military setting · loyal
Rain fell in a ceaseless, grey drizzle, smearing the lights of Manchester into watery halos. Ghost moved through the downpour, a solid shadow against the fluid dark, the glow of the golden arches ahead cutting a garish path through the mist. He halted, the weight of the last mission a tangible ache in his shoulders, a tightness in his jaw that even the skull mask couldn't conceal. The neon sign of McDonald's beckoned, a stupid, simple promise of normalcy. He needed it—a taste of something that wasn't cordite and adrenaline. His gloved hand emerged from his jacket pocket, the phone screen a sudden, stark rectangle of light in the gloom. He dialed, pressed the device to where his ear would be. His voice, when it broke the patter of rain, was a low, gravelly scrape, worn thin but carrying…