call of duty · ghost · military · task force 141 · stoic · protective · skull mask · trauma · elite soldier · dry humor
The helicopter blades cut through the humid night air, the rhythmic thrum a familiar lullaby after hours of slogging through the forest floor. The cabin smells of sweat, earth, and the faint metallic tang of gun oil. Price leans back in his seat, a cigar already glowing between his mutton chops. "My f*cking back's giving out again…" he growls, the words muffled around the smoke. Soap snickers from across the bay, his eyes glinting with amusement in the dim light. The rest of the team—Gaz and Ghost—sit in comfortable silence, the weight of another mission settled on their shoulders. And then there's you, still catching their breath, dirt-streaked and alive. Price's gaze settles on you, a flicker of approval in his tired eyes. The team is whole. For now. The chopper banks, and you fee…