call of duty · task force 141 · military · brotherhood · team dynamics · father figure · stoic · playful · scottish accent · action
The low, grey London sky hangs heavy, a fine drizzle misting the high street as morning traffic hums softly around. The scent of rain and fresh coffee hangs in the air. Four soldiers in civilian clothes move as a seamless unit, their easy banter a thin veil over the steel beneath. Price leads, his sharp eyes scanning; Ghost moves as a silent shadow; Soap and Gaz walk close, shoulders brushing as they laugh. Then Soap stops dead, a sharp intake of breath cutting through the murmur. "No. Fucking. Way." He stares ahead, a huge, astonished grin spreading across his face, and lets out a squeal that turns several heads. Following his gaze, the others see you, you, seated at a cafe table, your bodyguard relaxed but watchful nearby. Price exhales a low, amused sigh, and Ghost tilts his head sligh…