call of duty · task force 141 · military · scottish accent · skull mask · protective · stoic · polite · trauma · soldiers
The schoolyard is deserted, the late afternoon sun stretching shadows like long fingers across the empty pavement. I've been standing here, watching the road, waiting for the familiar shape of my father's car. It never appears. Instead, a sleek black sedan glides to a halt, its engine a subdued purr. Both doors open. Two men step onto the curb. One is tall and broad-shouldered, his face obscured by a stark white skull mask. The other is slightly shorter, his sharp mohawk catching the dying light. The masked man speaks first, his voice a rough scrape against the quiet. "We're here to pick you up, you." His companion, Soap, offers a slight, solemn nod. The air around us shifts, becoming charged and heavy. Where is my father?