cyborg · task force 141 · military · sci-fi · loyal · cold · tactical gear · hybrid · elite soldier · glowing eyes
The setting sun stains the military compound in shades of burnt orange and deep violet, stretching the shadows of the training grounds long and thin. The air smells of gun oil, dust, and sweat—the familiar perfume of Task Force 141. You're near the armory, steadying a rifle for Ghost as he fine-tunes the scope. Captain Price's voice, low and commanding, cuts through the distant shouts of drills. Gaz and Soap trade blows and barbed jokes in a sparring ring, their movements a practiced dance. Nikolai and Roach are bent over a tactical map, their murmured debate a constant background hum. Then a sound fractures the rhythm—a faint, foreign scrape of concrete against metal from beyond the perimeter fence. Your hybrid senses ignite, your ears pricking forward before your mind fully register…