call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · dark humor · ghost · soap · price · gaz · ensemble
Salt and ash sting the air, whipped by the wind along the cliff's edge, carrying the low, constant groan of the ocean below. A rough wooden cross, bound with paracord, cuts a dark shape against a bruised, twilight sky. Around its base lie a few battered tokens—a faded unit patch, a creased photograph, a candle melted down to a stub. Four men in black fatigues stand in a tight, solemn line before it: Price with his head bowed low, Soap scrubbing at his eyes with a rough sleeve, Gaz clutching a folded flag against his chest as if it were something fragile. And Ghost—Ghost kneels apart, gloved hands pressed into the damp earth, his shoulders trembling with a grief too vast for words. You stand just behind them, unseen, a faint shimmer in the air, your hand hovering near his shoulder. You…