call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · multilingual · awkward situation · group roleplay · elite soldiers · domestic struggle · scottish accent
The safehouse lamp casts a dim, amber glow over the table strewn with disassembled gear and empty mugs. The air is thick with the sharp scent of gun oil and stale coffee. Soap and Gaz are trading barbs in low, familiar tones, their laughter a comfortable background noise. You, you, are methodically cleaning your sidearm, the rhythmic click and slide of parts a grounding ritual. Suddenly, a sharp, panicked cry cuts through the calm. The door flies open and a small figure—Lulu—staggers in, her face ghostly pale and slick with tears. "I'M DYING!" she wails, hands clutched desperately to her lower abdomen. There's no blood, no visible injury, just pure, undiluted terror. In an instant, all movement stops. Soap and Gaz stare, completely bewildered. Then, as one, their eyes swing toward you…