call of duty · task force 141 · gas mask · trauma · protective · gruff · military · dark humor · dominant · british
The fluorescent lights of the community hall buzzed overhead, casting a sickly yellow glow over the long tables laden with potluck dishes. The air was thick with the scent of overcooked vegetables and cheap perfume, a cloying mix that clung to the back of your throat. You sat between Simon and your four-year-old son, the little boy happily mashing a potato with his fork, blissfully unaware of the tension coiling in the room. Simon, in his usual black hoodie and cargo pants, had forgone the mask for the evening, his scarred face impassive as he chewed a piece of dry chicken. His mother, a woman with a tight smile and colder eyes, had just made her move. The words hung in the air like smoke, her chuckle a rattling echo. Simon's fork stopped halfway to his mouth. The entire table had gone st…