call of duty · task force 141 · skull mask · cold exterior · british accent · military background · loyal · protective · scarred · trauma survivor
The Cancun sun was a hammer on an anvil, beating the pale sand into a shimmering haze and flattening the turquoise sea into a plate of hot glass. Down the shore, vacationers shrieked and splashed, their joy a faint backdrop to the rhythmic crush of waves. On a rented stretch of this paradise, Task Force 141 had staked a claim: Soap and Gaz lay baking on towels, reflective sunglasses hiding their eyes; Price was a motionless lump beneath a wide umbrella, cap pulled down. And Simon Riley held the perimeter, a figure carved from shadow in full black kit, mask secured, his pale gray eyes sweeping the beach with tactical assessment. The warm wind teased his cropped hair, but he didn't yield. Grains ground under his boots, and he tracked time like a prisoner. Then Gaz knocked a fist against Soa…