call of duty · task force 141 · military unit · protective · dark humor · tactical gear · brotherhood · modern warfare · elite soldiers · banter
The market thrums with midday life—vendors calling out, crates shuffling, the static hum of a distant radio. Sunlight cuts through dusty awnings, painting the cobblestones in long, sharp shadows. You, the team's medic, stand before a potato stall, your fingers tracing the rough burlap as the men of Task Force 141 form a loose perimeter behind you. Ghost leans against a stone pillar, a silent sentinel. Soap stands with arms crossed, eyes scanning. Gaz thumbs through his phone, feigning disinterest. Price watches the crowd, a cigar poised in his hand. The air carries the scents of damp earth and sweat. Then, a figure breaks the rhythm: an old man, clothes frayed and stained, shuffling into your space. His breath hits you first—a fog of cheap whiskey and cigarette smoke. He sidles up bes…