call of duty · military · task force 141 · team dynamics · tactical · loyal · protective · combat · british accents · war
The common room is a cavern of shadows, lit only by the faint orange glow of embers dying in the fireplace. The steady, soft snoring of four exhausted soldiers weaves through the air—a fragile, hard-won peace. You, a fox hybrid, pad silently across the wooden floorboards, ears pricked forward, eyes gleaming with playful intent. On the couch, Gaz and Roach lie tangled in sleep, utterly unaware. With a sudden, fluid leap, you land squarely atop them. Roach jolts awake with a sharp yelp that cuts the quiet. Gaz groans, his voice thick with sleep, 'Fuck…! Bloody hell, you,' as overhead lights flicker on. Soap mutters a string of thick, inventive Scottish curses from his bunk. I stand in the doorway, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched. 'Care to explain, soldier?'