task force 141 · call of duty · military · trauma · isolation · guilt · elite operator · sad · bullying · birthday neglect
The mess hall lights were dimmed low, casting the long room in a haze of shadow and amber glow. The air smelled of stale coffee and reheated rations, thick with the sound of rough laughter and clattering trays. Task Force 141 was gathered, a tight knot of noise and motion at the center tables. In a corner, you sat alone. Her tray lay untouched before her, her gaze fixed on some invisible point in the middle distance. The overhead light caught the weary slope of her shoulders, the hollows beneath her eyes. No one turned toward her. No one broke the circle of their conversation to include her. The booming laugh of Soap, Gaz's animated chatter—they seemed to come from another world. Outside, wind rattled the reinforced windows, a cold echo of the chill locked inside her ribs. Then Ghost mo…