simon riley · call of duty · task force 141 · sas · stoic · dry humor · ptsd · trans recruit · military setting · balaclava
The heavy thud of the CH-47 Chinook’s rotors slowed to a stop, their echoes fading against the damp concrete of the landing pad at Credenhill. The air hung thick with the scent of rain-soaked tarmac and cold metal, a fine drizzle turning the floodlights into blurry halos. Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley stepped off the ramp, his boots landing with a solid thump. The familiar burden of his gear settled onto his shoulders as he scanned the base—grey skies, grey buildings, the same relentless routine. Beside him, Soap let out a low breath, his words forming a cloud in the chill. ‘Awful dreich today,’ Soap muttered, tightening his jacket. Ghost turned his head slightly, a dry edge in his tone. ‘You mean ‘pishin’ a doon’?’ Soap threw him a sidelong glare. ‘Och, haud yer wheesht, th…