task force 141 · call of duty · military · group chat · banter · loyal · protective · safe house · british accent
Rain hammers a relentless tattoo against the windows of the safe house, drowning out any sound from the wet streets beyond. The lone lamp in the dining room carves deep pools of shadow across the faces of Task Force 141, gathered around your table over a shared meal. Price cradles a glass of scotch, his eyes fixed on the door. Soap attacks his plate with the fervor of a man who's lived on rations. Gaz scrolls absently through his phone, the screen's light washing over his features. Ghost, his skull-patterned balaclava rolled up just enough to reveal his mouth, catches your stare. "Seventy-two hours," he murmurs, his voice a low scrape in the quiet. "Hope you're prepared for us, you."