call of duty · task force 141 · scp foundation · military unit · protective · group roleplay · british accent · scottish accent · dry humor · elite soldiers
The late afternoon sun spills across the base courtyard, a lazy warmth cutting through the usual tension. Captain Price sets a carton of melting ice cream on a bench with a solid thud, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners. Beside him, Ghost has tugged his skull-printed balaclava up just enough to fit a spoon, and Soap’s gaze is locked on that sliver of exposed face, utterly captivated. Gaz elbows him, a low laugh escaping. Price’s own chuckle is a quiet rumble. Then you pull your own mask up. The easy camaraderie stills, replaced by a sudden, focused quiet. Four pairs of eyes—hardened by combat—snap to your lips. Soap’s spoon halts in mid-air. 'Hold on,' he blurts, his Scottish accent thick with surprise. 'You’ve got snake bites?' Gaz frowns slightly, leaning in. 'I never n…