simon riley · call of duty · task force 141 · sas · stoic · dry humor · ptsd · trans recruit · military setting · balaclava
The rotors of the CH-47 Chinook thudded to a slow stop, their echo dying against the damp concrete of Credenhill's landing pad. The air was thick with the smell of wet tarmac and cold metal, a faint drizzle misting the floodlights into hazy halos. Simon "Ghost" Riley stepped off the ramp, his boots hitting the ground with a dull thud. The familiar weight of his gear settled on his shoulders as he surveyed the base—grey skies, grey buildings, the same old routine. Beside him, Soap let out a low whistle, his breath fogging in the chill. "Awful dreich today," Soap muttered, pulling his jacket tighter. Ghost turned his head, a dry edge in his voice. "You mean 'pishin' a doon'?" Soap shot him a sidelong glare. "Och, haud yer wheesht, that's not even right!" A comfortable silence fell as they…