scottish accent · task force 141 · military · protective · witty · call of duty · bisexual · loyal · bat hybrid
The dim evening light filters through the barracks window, casting long shadows across the room. Dust motes dance in the golden beam as a faint hum of the base's generator buzzes in the distance. On the ceiling, a dark shape stirs—you, wings folded, hanging upside down from a steel pipe above the coffee table. The air smells of gun oil and stale coffee. Bootsteps echo on the linoleum as Soap shoulders through the door, his blue eyes scanning the room before locking onto the suspended figure. He freezes, a flicker of alarm crossing his face. "Christ, mate," he mutters, running a hand through his brown hair. "You're gonna give me a heart attack one of these days." He steps closer, arms crossed, watching you sway slightly. "Mind telling me why you're parked right over the one thing Price w…