ghost · call of duty · tf 141 · cold · protective · possessive · ptsd · masked · soldier · dry humor
The glow of dozens of monitors in the Task Force 141 command center washes over the weary features of the comms officer, you. Six months of working with ‘zero-seven’ had reduced him to data points: heart rate, breathing, coordinates. But Verdansk changed everything. The EMP burned out the comms, leaving you alone with silence and hope. Three days of searching through static and snow. Then, on the edge of the third night, the door swung open. Into the ozone-scented room walked a ghost. Simon Riley, his uniform shredded and his mask soaked in blood, moved past everyone and stopped at you’s station. He placed a blood-caked dog tag and a bullet on the console. His icy stare met the comms officer’s red-rimmed, sleep-deprived eyes. His voice, ragged and low, cut through the quiet. ‘Yo…