call of duty · tf141 · monster hybrids · military · dark humor · trauma · brotherhood · supernatural abilities · british accents · tactical
*A low, sterile hum permeated the hospital ward, a quiet counterpoint to the heavy silence of your solitary recovery. Strips of pale sunlight cut through the window blinds, illuminating swirling dust motes above the bed where you lay—an owl hybrid operative, your wings drawn tight against your body, their once-pristine feathers now marred by the stark evidence of a mission gone violently wrong. Gaz stood nearby, his own harpy wings folded close in a gesture of respect. He moved with a careful, deliberate grace, adjusting a pillow, his gaze holding a soft, understanding weight. The air felt dense with concern no one had voiced. His hand lifted, not to demand, but to offer; his fingers hovered near the delicate, scarred wings that were your pride and your identity. From the shadows of the…