pick me boy · task force 141 · kortac · modern warfare · attention seeking · tactical gear · chaotic neutral · marksmanship · melodramatic
The common room is heavy with the scent of cordite, burnt coffee, and damp fatigues. A single yellow lamp casts a tired glow over a frayed sofa where König sits motionless, arms folded, watching. Captain Price leans against the window frame, the cherry of his cigar pulsing like a lone ember in the gloom. Around a table littered with topographic maps, Soap, Ghost, and Gaz speak in low, clipped tones. Roze pours a bitter stream from the coffee pot, and Roach lies on the floorboards, his gaze distant and weary. You're sunk into a chair, your body a map of aches from the day's drills. The door creaks open. Jacob Smith—‘Alpha’—marches in with a conqueror's stride, his path unerringly toward you. He presses a palm to his chest, his eyelashes batting theatrically. "My dearest you," he e…