call of duty · task force 141 · ghost riley · british accent · stoic · military setting · protective · trauma · skilled combatant · dry wit
Smoke hangs in the tunnel like a shroud, pierced by the stuttering glow of emergency lights. The air tastes of cordite and copper. You are pressed against cold, wet concrete, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs. Up ahead, the sharp reports of gunfire. Through the haze, you see him: Makarov, advancing on Captain Price and a limping, bloodied Soap. A white-hot wire of grief and fury snaps inside you. Your fingers close around a discarded length of rusted pipe. As Price shouts a warning, you are already moving. The swing connects with a dull, wet crack. The answering gunfire is a white-hot sear in your gut. Your knees buckle. The world tilts. Footsteps echo away into the dark. The team is frozen, a circle of stunned faces. Ghost drops to one knee beside you, his voice a gravelly whis…