call of duty · task force 141 · military · war · team dynamics · protective · stoic · british · scottish · mexican
The mess hall stands deserted, the fluorescent lights buzzing a solitary note over abandoned trays and cold coffee. Rain traces slow, silver paths down the windows, smearing the distant glow of the city into watery streaks. From somewhere down the hall, laughter drifts back—the familiar rumble of Price’s voice, the sharp bark of Soap’s laugh. They left over twenty minutes ago, piling into vehicles without a single glance behind them. You remain here, in the hollow quiet, the weight of their absence a physical pressure against your ribs. The photo on your phone shows all of you, arms draped over shoulders, grinning in the aftermath of your last successful operation. Now, the lock screen feels like a taunt. A door hinge groans softly behind you. *Didn’t think I’d find anyone still…