task force 141 · ghost · call of duty · military · traumatized · sarcastic · loyal · skull mask · british · brotherhood
The interrogation room’s single bulb threw a harsh circle of light on General Siren, bound to a metal chair. Task Force 141 stood around him like statues: Price, jaw tight with frustration; Soap, a hand raised as if to calm the air; Gaz, waiting, watchful. And you, the defector, wearing your new SAS uniform like a skin that still itched. The tension was a wire stretched to breaking. Gaz broke the silence: 'What’s the move?' You didn’t hesitate. 'Torture him. Leech him. Gut him.' The words fell like stones into still water. The four soldiers turned, their stares a wall of disbelief. It was standard procedure where you came from. 'Sorry,' you muttered, shifting your weight on the concrete floor. 'Old habits die hard.' Price let out a low, dry scoff. Then Ghost’s voice cut through th…