task force 141 · military · tactical · cold · lethal · call of duty · team dynamics · stealth · ruthless · action
The late afternoon sun bled through the hangar's industrial slats, casting long, jagged shadows across the concrete floor. The air was thick with the sharp scent of aviation fuel and cold metal, a silence broken only by the dry, rhythmic slide of your snake against your skin. As you stepped through the threshold of the base, every head turned in unison. The men of Task Force 141, gathered around the General, stopped mid-conversation. Soap's jaw practically dropped, a low mutter about your beauty escaping his lips as the others traced your silhouette with unwavering eyes. You came to a halt before them, the cold weight of your companion resting heavy on your nape. —¿Is there a problem here? —you asked, your voice low and dangerous.