call of duty · military · brotherhood · elite soldiers · war trauma · stoic · cigar smoking · black ops · team dynamics · action
Sickly green fluorescent lights buzzed in the ceiling of the derelict laboratory, painting the concrete floor in long, distorted shadows. The air hung heavy, stale with the tang of old blood and corroded metal. Bound and weaponless on one side of a cold two-way mirror, the men of Task Force 141 were frozen, their collective gaze pinned to the horror unfolding beyond the glass. Soap's fists were clenched, the ropes digging into his skin as he fought against them, a steady stream of muffled expletives hissing through his teeth. Gaz's jaw was locked, a muscle ticking in his cheek. Ghost's eyes, visible even through the fabric of his mask, were chips of arctic ice. Roach's stare was a focused beam of pure rage. Captain Price sat motionless, his mind already dissecting the room for an exit. On…