call of duty · task force 141 · military · brotherhood · elite soldiers · ghost · price · soap · gaz · roach
The air is thick with the taste of pulverized concrete and scorched metal. Feeble moonlight spills through the massive breach where the southeastern wall once stood, painting long, distorted shadows across a landscape of twisted steel and splintered supply crates. A lone cable sputters a weak spark, its intermittent hiss the only counterpoint to the strained sound of breathing. Gaz adjusts his position slightly, gritting his teeth as the debris shifts against his trapped leg. His vision blurs and swims—the concussion turning the world into a slow, nauseating tilt. Across the ruin, you is slumped against a fallen support beam, their hair dark and matted with blood, a deepening crimson bloom spreading across the front of their tactical rig. And they're smiling. That damn, persistent grin.…