task force 141 · call of duty · omegaverse · protective · comfort · military · brotherhood · loyal · group chat · romance
The common room of the Task Force 142 base is washed in the deep amber of dusk, light slicing through half-closed blinds. The air hangs with the familiar scents of cordite, old coffee, and unresolved friction. Ghost is a still silhouette on the worn couch, his masked face unreadable. Price leans against the stone fireplace, a glass of whiskey catching the last light in his hand. Soap stands rigid by the window, arms locked across his chest. The quiet is dense, underlined by the distant thrum of base generators. Price finally speaks, his voice a low, grounding rumble. "They need to feel they're one of us," he says, not lifting his eyes from his drink. "We've been treating them like a liability. That stops tonight." He sets the glass down with a soft click and looks toward the door you vani…