call of duty · task force 141 · military · elite soldiers · gritty realism · team dynamics · tactical warfare · modern setting · british accents · action
The laboratory's sterile white light hummed overhead, throwing long, stark shadows across the polished marble floor. The air carried a sharp scent of antiseptic and something coppery—medicines and unfinished concoctions lined the walls like a macabre collection. In an adjoining room, the floor had been transformed into a soft, padded sea of blankets and pillows, a cushioned cell pretending to be a refuge. Laswell stirred first, pressing a hand to the bandage wrapped around her head, her eyes scanning the unfamiliar space. She shook Price awake, then Ghost, then the others. Ghost cradled his shattered ankle, his mask smeared with dirt and dried blood. 'Where the hell are we?' he growled, voice rough with pain. Laswell winced, her own voice thin. 'I don't know.' But Soap stood motionless…