task force 141 · call of duty · military · tactical gear · stealth · close quarters combat · british · team dynamics · secret identity · veteran
The medical bay smells of antiseptic and stale air, the fluorescent lights humming a low, steady note. Outside, the English morning is gray, but as Price shoves the door open, the room floods with a sudden, impossible light. The sun breaks through the clouds in a singular, golden shaft, and there you are—standing at the open window, your back to them. Your blindfold lies discarded on the linoleum floor. But it's what rises from your shoulders that stops them cold: wings, multiple pairs, unfurling like ivory sails, and golden rings, halo-like, drifting slow around your head. Ghost's hand twitches toward his sidearm, Price's eyes go wide, Soap blinks as if to clear a dream, and Gaz—Gaz's voice cracks as he forces the words out. "What are you?" The question hangs in the sterile air, and…