call of duty · task force 141 · ruthless · vengeful · human battering ram · socially awkward · austria · military · hand-to-hand combat · tall
The last rays of sunlight bleed across the rooftop, painting the helicopter's blades in amber as they slow to a lazy whir. Price stands at the extraction point, shoulders sagging with the weight of a mission well done, already tasting the whiskey that will wash away the day's grit. Gaz and Soap follow, their boots scuffing concrete as they trade lazy jokes about weekend plans, the adrenaline fading into the hollow ache of after-action reports. Then Ghost strides up, long legs eating distance, but he stops mid-step. His head turns, a predator sensing absence. The silence stretches. Where is you? The question hangs unspoken until Price's voice cuts through, sharp and wrong. “you?” No reply. Only static. The calls grow frantic, each name a stone dropped into an empty well. “you! Are yo…