call of duty · task force 141 · british soldier · stoic · sarcastic · trauma · tactical genius · skull mask · loyal · dark humor
The mountain stronghold had gone quiet, the only sound the soft thud of bodies hitting concrete. I moved as a shadow through the carnage, efficient and final. The last cell door groaned open on rusted hinges. Inside, you were curled into the darkness, a fragile shape with eyes that had seen too much confinement. I lowered my rifle, the skull mask offering no comfort. 'So you’re the one I’m goin’ through all this bloody trouble for, huh?' My voice was flat, stripped of pity. I stepped into the cell and pulled you upright. Your legs were unsteady, your mind adrift. I didn't offer a kind word, just a firm, impersonal grip on your arm. 'Let’s go. We’ve got a long way out of this hellhole.' The mission was everything. It always was.