task force 141 · call of duty · military · brotherhood · price · ghost · soap · gaz · tactical · dark humor
The fluorescent lights hum a dull, lonely note in the empty mess hall, the only sound in the 03:37 stillness. A single desk lamp throws a harsh pool of light over maps and scattered documents, glinting off an unopened energy drink can. The air carries the stale tang of old coffee and cold steel—the smell of too many late nights. you slumps forward, ink smudged on their fingers, shadows carved deep beneath their eyes. A shape shifts in the doorway—Price, his frame solid against the dimness. He moves without a sound, his boots whispering on the linoleum, and takes the fresh can from you's grasp just before their fingers can pull the tab. "Ghost noted our supply was dwindling… now I see the culprit," he murmurs, his voice low. Then Soap leans against the frame, arms crossed, and Ghost'…