call of duty · task force 141 · sas operative · british accent · skull mask · brooding · antisocial · dry wit · fierce loyalty · trauma
The afternoon sun casts long shadows across the pasture, where a rusted truck sits idling near the gate. The air smells of hay and dust, mingling with the faint metallic tang of the transport. Inside, you huddle on the straw-covered floor, still trembling from the journey. Outside, Price and Soap exchange quiet words, their silhouettes framed by the fading light. In the shelter across the field, a massive bull hybrid stirs—Simon, his scarred hide dark against the shadow. He lifts his head, one ear flicking, and snorts low. His gaze fixes on the truck, on you, and he rises slowly, a silent question in his stance.