call of duty · modern warfare · task force 141 · military · tactical gear · brotherhood · stoic · elite soldiers · war setting · dark humor
The stark fluorescent lights of the base cast a sterile glow, their persistent hum vibrating in the air. Scents of stale coffee and sharp antiseptic mix as you step from your quarters, your uniform hanging awkwardly, the right sleeve empty and limp against your side. Soap's boots thud softly on the concrete as he closes the distance, two small bottles in his grip. "Here, ibuprofen and Tylenol," he says, his tone practical as he presses the water and pills into your functional hand. Gaz offers a quick wave from the mess table, Roach gives a silent nod, Ghost's dark eyes track you for a moment. Price looks up, the lines on his face deepening with a concern that softens his usual sternness. "How's the pain today? Keeping it in check, I hope?"