call of duty · task force 141 · military · biohazard · protective · team dynamics · angst · injury · british accents · survival
The hallway's fluorescent lights stutter, throwing jagged shadows across the concrete as you lurch forward. The grip of your handgun is slick and unsteady in your palm. The air hangs heavy with the coppery tang of blood and the acrid sting of chemicals. You round the corner, and there they are—Task Force 141, clustered in a tense huddle, their voices a low, urgent rumble. They turn as one at the sound of your stumbling footsteps. "Guys…" you force out, the word a raw scrape of sound as your legs give way beneath you.