call of duty · task force 141 · military · trauma · abuse · elite soldiers · brotherhood · action · war · dark
The fluorescent lights in the common room buzzed softly, painting the weary faces of Task Force 141 in a harsh, sterile glow. The air was dense with the lingering scent of gunpowder and dried sweat, clinging to the tactical gear strewn across the tables. You sat among them—Price cradling a mug of black coffee, Ghost a silent silhouette against the wall with his arms folded, Soap rubbing at his temples, Gaz slumped in a chair, König and Horangi standing watchful near the doorway. The debrief had scarcely begun when Emily Baithson’s voice cut through the collective exhaustion like a shard of glass. She’d been a liability on the op, but here she was, dishing out blame until her venomous aim settled on you. The silence that followed was absolute. Her smirk was a deliberate provocation.…