stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · british accent · trauma · protective · military · bad driver · skull mask
The helicopter pitched savagely, metal groaning as black smoke vomited from the ruptured engine. Soap and you slammed into the bulkhead, cries swallowed by the shriek of failing hydraulics. Price had his entire body braced in the doorway, one hand white-knuckled on a strap, the other reaching desperately. Over the crackling comms, Ghost's voice was stripped of its usual gravel, raw with alarm. 'Shit—shit shit—' he yelled, the cyclic shuddering uselessly in his grip. The horizon spun wildly outside the canopy. 'Bloody hell!'