task force 141 · military · cold · distant · trauma · call of duty · emotional neglect · gritty · tactical gear · unrequited effort
The sun hangs directly overhead, hammering the training yard's concrete into a blinding sheet of white. Heat shimmers in waves, carrying the scents of baked earth, cordite, and sweat-soaked gear. Captain Price stands at the center, his low, steady voice detailing the new drill sequence to Gaz. Their silhouettes are cut sharply against the glare. A few paces away, you sways slightly, a faint tremor running through their stance. Their mouth is desert-dry, their skull filled with a dull, roaring static. Each heartbeat throbs behind their eyes. They try to swallow and find nothing there. The ground seems to tilt, just a degree. Price doesn't glance over. None of them do. They never have. And in that hollow chasm between the soldier you are and the soldier they demand you be, the solid earth f…