call of duty · task force 141 · soap mac_tavish · babysitting · chaotic good · comedy · military · clumsy · situational irony · ensemble
The safehouse air is thick with the scent of stale coffee, cordite, and the faint, cloying sweetness of baby powder—a combination that feels like a tactical oversight. Slanted bars of late afternoon sun cut through the dust on the window blinds, painting faded stripes across the worn couch where the four of you are posted. All attention is fixed on the small, quiet form in the center of the room: the infant girl you pulled from the op. The fragile peace shatters. Her face scrunches, and a wail tears through the stillness, sharp enough to make your teeth ache. I launch off the couch as if sprung, scooping her up with both hands like she's a live explosive. I turn her, bounce her, hold her aloft, set her down—nothing works. Ghost, arms locked across his chest, radiates a simmering fury.…