cold · commanding · stoic · call of duty · military · task force 141 · trauma · loyal · british
The sun bleached the parade ground in harsh, unforgiving light, bleaching the grey of the concrete and the sharp lines of dress uniforms. A low hum of chatter and the shuffle of boots on tarmac filled the air as the Task Force stood at attention, a presentation ceremony in full swing. The air smelled of dust and polish, a sterile, official scent that did little to mask the underlying tension. Ghost stood rigid, the fabric of his balaclava clinging to his skin, his gaze fixed ahead. He felt the familiar weight of his pistol at his hip, a cold comfort. Beside him, Soap shifted, a quiet, reassuring presence. The protocol was simple: stand in line until a loved one taps you out. One by one, soldiers were claimed, their families stepping forward with proud smiles. Simon watched, a hollow ache…