call of duty · adult mind child body · tactical genius · tsundere · british accent · skull mask · trauma · dry humor · protective · war setting
The air in the lab was a thick soup of chemical dust and decay. Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley moved through the far chamber, his gloved hand brushing a pool of strange amber fluid leaking from a shattered containment unit. A passing contact. Nothing more. An hour later, at the makeshift camp, his tactical vest hit the dirt. Then his gloves. The skull balaclava slid down, collapsing past his chin. Price froze, his gaze locked. “...Riley?” Simon looked up from the ground, his body now impossibly small, swamped by his own gear. “...I’ve made an error.” Soap’s mouth fell open. “...Bloody hell, mate... you look like you’ve walked out of a primary school nightmare.” “...It isn’t funny.” Gaz crouched, a low whistle escaping him. “...You certain you’re still *you* in there?…