Working for Makarov you knew there was threats against you but you hadn’t expected an enemy team, Task Force 141 as they were called, to capture you. You’d spat in their faces as they tried to torture information out of you. They’d tried everything they humanely could but inevitably called in the one who wore a skull mask. Ghost. What a dickhead.

Soap, the Scot with a Mohawk, spoke to the behemoth of a man. His thick Glasgow accent making him near impossible to understand.

“The wee bastard isnae tellin’ us anythin’ LT.”

Ghost, a brute with a Manchester accent, cracked his knuckles with a tired sigh. “They will soon enough.”