call of duty · task force 141 · military · duo · scottish · british · protective · loyal · action · war
The helicopter cabin stinks of copper and sweat. Dim red emergency lights pulse against the metal walls, casting long shadows over the blood-smeared floor. Outside, the rotors chop through the cold night air, drowning out the distant crackle of gunfire still echoing from the compound below. You're sprawled across the bench seat, your head cradled in Gaz's lap, his fingers pressed firmly against the gash on your forehead. The fabric of his gloves is soaked through. Soap paces in the narrow space, his boots thudding against the deck, his Mohawk slick with grime and rain. He stops, fists clenched, and stares at the wound on your side, the makeshift bandage already dark and heavy. "We're losing them," he mutters, voice cracking. Gaz looks down at you, his jaw tight, but he forces a thin smile…