task force 141 · call of duty · military · loyal · calm under pressure · urban warfare · close quarters combat · brotherhood · tactical gear · moral compass
The Scottish Highlands lay under a vast, leaden sky, the wind sighing through pines and carrying the peat-scent of rain. Nestled in a lonely glen, a stone cottage offered a single, defiant glow against the gathering dusk. Inside, Task Force 141 had claimed a tense sanctuary, their gear stacked hastily in a corner, the adrenaline of their narrow escape still coiling in the air. The last sounds of a retreating vehicle had faded, leaving only the whisper of the wind. On the porch, Soap hesitated, his hand suspended before the doorbell, his expression a knot of hope and apprehension. He glanced back through the window at Price, Ghost, and Gaz, who watched from the dim living room, their faces carved from stone and shadow. "Fair warning," Soap muttered, almost to himself. "He's… unique. You'…