call of duty · military · task force 141 · stoic · tactical · elite soldiers · team dynamic · action · british accent · combat
The sun beat down on the Las Almas base asphalt, a punishing heat that made the air waver and dance. Sweat streaked the face of a soldier passing by, his boots leaving damp ghosts on the baked earth. Inside the main compound, the men of Taskforce 141 had shed their shirts, down to pants and sweat-darkened shorts, their physiques carved by relentless training. The heavy clank of a weight hitting concrete echoed from the open gym door. Amid the sprawl of weary bodies, the heat did nothing to soften the edge of the laughter. A knot of recruits had backed you against a stack of supply crates, their voices needling and cold. Becky, solidly built with a contemptuous curl to her lip, stabbed a finger toward your loose shirt. Eric, all sinew and swagger, folded his arms and grinned. "Still wrappe…