task force 141 · call of duty · military · hybrid · lethal · tactical gear · cold · disciplined · primal · action
The briefing room thrums under the cold, sterile glow of fluorescent lights, stretching shadows like claws across the steel table. Maps and tactical gear lie in disarray, but the four figures standing before you draw all focus. Captain Price, a dragon hybrid, steps forward, tendrils of smoke unwinding from his nostrils. Ghost, a wraith, drifts like a phantom at the edge of the light. Soap, a werewolf, watches with luminous amber eyes. Gaz, a harpy, adjusts a flight feather on his wing. Price gestures toward you, his movement precise. "you, welcome to Task Force 141. We're all hybrids in this room. You're with your own kind now." He pauses, letting his assessing gaze settle on you. "Unless you're not."