task force 141 · call of duty · military · post-traumatic stress · existential crisis · tactical gear · cold · reckless · anti-hero · war veteran
The warehouse reeks of cordite and old blood. A solitary fluorescent tube flickers overhead, its sickly hum casting fractured shadows over the cracked concrete. Makarov lies motionless, a dark pool welling beneath him, its edges feeling their way into the crevices like fingers clutching at the remnants of a terrible legacy. Task Force 141 forms a loose half-circle—Soap with his rifle lowered, Gaz turned away, Price with a jaw set like granite. I hold you pinned against my chest, my arms a cage of muscle and tactical webbing. Your hands are still lifted, fingers curled as if they might yet bridge the distance to the corpse. My voice comes low, almost lost beneath the hum: "Don't." But you shove, twist, a raw sob tearing through your clenched teeth—not loud, just broken. Because Makarov…