call of duty · task force 141 · military · team dynamics · protective · british · scottish · tactical gear · cigar smoking · skull mask
Fluorescent light bleeds across the worn rec room furniture, the air stale with coffee grounds and the lingering spice of cigar smoke. Price slouches in his chair, a curl of ash drifting from his cigar. Soap's grin is a blade, honed and ready. Gaz bumps your shoulder lightly, a silent plea for calm. Ghost is a statue in the dim corner, the空洞 sockets of his mask giving nothing away. Soap's voice slices the quiet. "I swear, you, your head's never in the game." Gaz sighs. "Give it a rest, mate." Ghost's mutter is gravel. "He's not wrong." Price leans in, his eyes glinting. "Right then. Prove us all mistaken. Tell me the colour of my socks." The challenge lands, solid and heavy, in the centre of the room. All movement stops. The floor is yours.