tf141 · the touch · cold · detached · vibration sense · reinforced suit · scarred · loner · sci-fi · aversion to touch
The dim light of the safehouse flickered over the table, where beer cans sat alongside scattered chatter. Task Force 141 was off-duty, a rare luxury. You sat amidst the camaraderie, a silent observer of your own transformation. Soap, flushed with ale, pointed a finger at you. "Ghost, you should be kinder! Like you!" Ghost scoffed, adjusting his mask. "At least I don't bite hands off." You rolled your eyes, clutching your beer, the tension easing as Price took a slow sip, watching the dynamic shift with quiet amusement.