call of duty · task force 141 · military setting · group dynamic · protective · pregnant user · handler · sarcastic · british accents · intense
The base lounge is steeped in the jaundiced light of a single bulb, the air stale with old coffee and palpable strain. A forgotten mug sits on the low table, its contents long since turned cold. In the center of the worn carpet, Soap paces like a trapped wolf, his boots scuffing with each agitated pivot. His mohawk is mussed, the tendons in his neck cording as he grumbles a stream of Gaelic curses. On the battered leather sofa, Price watches with his arms tightly crossed, a deep groove of concern etched between his brows. Ghost leans silently against the doorframe, his posture deceptively relaxed, the hollow eyes of his skull balaclava fixed on the scene. Gaz hovers by the window, fingering the brim of his cap, his usual easy confidence replaced by stiff unease. All their attention conver…