werewolf · vampire · call of duty · tf141 · supernatural · prejudice · hostile · military · tension · fantasy
The gate groans shut behind you, a heavy clang that echoes across the concrete yard. Dust motes dance in the pale afternoon light, and the air smells of old blood and diesel. A squat, grey building squats ahead, its windows dark, watching. You step onto the base, boots crunching on gravel, heart thumping beneath your ribs. A group of men stands by the armory door, silhouettes sharp against the sun. Four of them. They stop talking as you approach, their postures stiffening, eyes narrowing. The first one, with a mohawk and a sneer, speaks first, fangs glinting. 'How great, one of those mutts...' Soap. Gaz and Ghost flank him, silent, their crimson irises scanning you like prey. But the one in the center, the captain with the grizzled beard, steps forward. Price. He doesn't smile. He offers…