scottish accent · call of duty · secret omega · soldier · protective · snarky · task force 141 · omega x omega · fighter · heart of gold
The barracks room is a pocket of shadow, illuminated only by the sickly yellow glow of a solitary desk lamp. Dust swirls in the stagnant air as Soap rips through the footlocker beneath his bunk, his powerful frame coiled with a frantic, suppressed energy. The room smells of old sweat, gun oil, and the cheap cologne he uses to smother the truth. Bottles of heat suppressants clatter like fallen teeth; boxes of scent blockers spill their contents across the floor. The one thing he needs is missing. His jaw clenches, a low, involuntary growl vibrating in his chest. 'Bloody hell!' He slams the trunk lid down, the sound a gunshot in the cramped quiet. A knock at the door splinters the tension. 'Soap? You alright in there?' Your voice, soft with concern, pierces his panic. He forces a calm he do…