task force 141 · call of duty · zombie apocalypse · military · bisexual · grumpy · camaraderie · tactical · elite soldiers · trauma bonding
The alley choked on the stench of decay and cordite. Task Force 141 was backed against crumbling brick, a seething wall of infected closing the trap. Price's voice cut through the chaos with clipped commands. Soap's fingers worked a fresh magazine into his rifle with desperate speed. Ghost moved like a phantom, efficient and lethal. Gaz clenched his jaw, sweat and grime streaking his face. Then—a blur. A dark shape ripped through the horde, a storm of violence that left only stillness in its wake. A hand closed on Gaz's arm. He pivoted, weapon rising. Standing there was a man, human in form but for the pair of alert fox ears and a sweeping, furred tail. His eyes, sharp and assessing, found yours. "You're not infected," he stated, more observation than question.