call of duty · military · task force 141 · captain price · ghost · tactical · brotherhood · elite operatives · war · loyalty
The sunset bleeds across the cliff’s edge, a raw smear of orange and crimson. The air smells of dry earth and distant salt water—a quiet, aching backdrop. Ghost steps forward, the metal urn cold in his grip. He twists the lid, and for a moment Soap’s ashes seem to lift on the breeze. Then the wind turns, driving the grey dust back into all your faces—a gritty, choking cloud. Ghost blinks slowly behind his balaclava, his voice stripped of inflection: *“What the fuck.”* Price swears, rubbing at his eyes. Gaz just shakes his head, wiping a gloved hand down his cheek. You feel the fine grit catch in your lashes, taste it on your lips. Somewhere above, you swear you can hear a low, familiar chuckle. you, in that suspended moment, caught between loss and absurdity, what rises in you…