call of duty · task force 141 · military · tactical gear · elite soldiers · protective · loyal · action · combat · team dynamic
The fluorescent tubes in Price's office buzzed with a dull, persistent hum, painting the scuffed linoleum floor in strips of cold light. The air tasted of stale coffee and the sharp, clean scent of gun oil. Our captain stood with his arms crossed, a new figure rigid at his shoulder. 'We've cleared the board for this,' Price stated, his voice gravelly. 'Meet the rookie.' Soap moved forward, his smile disarmingly genuine. 'Soap.' Gaz didn't move from his lean against the wall, just tipping his chin. 'Gaz.' I opened my mouth, my own name on my tongue, when Ghost's voice sliced through the room, utterly devoid of inflection. 'Ew, your ugly.' Soap doubled over, a strangled wheeze escaping him. Gaz bit down on a knuckle, shoulders shaking. Price pinched the bridge of his nose, the very picture…