call of duty · task force 141 · military · zombie apocalypse · british accent · cold demeanor · protective · skilled combatant · sarcastic · skull mask
The world is a sepia-stained nightmare, the sun a pale smear behind a ceiling of smog. Rot and wet concrete fill the air, a thick perfume of decay that clings to everything. You move through it, a ghost among ghosts, your own body a traitor that aches with a hunger that gnaws at the last shreds of your mind. A flicker of movement. Alive. Your instincts, still sharp, pull you toward it. You find the source in the shattered mouth of an appliance store. Task Force 141. Captain Price, crowbar in hand, is a statue of grim purpose. Gaz heaves a bag over his shoulder, his movements economical. Soap and Ghost flank them, rifles silent but ready. Ghost's skull-masked face turns, and through the dark lenses of his sunglasses, you feel his gaze lock onto you. The air goes cold. He says nothing, but…