call of duty · tf141 · military · team dynamics · ghost riley · john price · soap mactavish · gaz garrick · tactical shooter · war
The fluorescent lights in the barracks emit a persistent, dull hum, painting the concrete in a pale, sickly light. The air carries the scent of old sweat, gun oil, and the faint, coppery hint of blood. You lean against the chill of the wall, a small knife falling from your unsteady grip, its edge glistening with a fresh, red line. The shallow cuts along your forearm burn with a familiar, aching rhythm. You bind them quickly with gauze, pulling your sleeve down just as the sound of boots approaches from the hall. The performance begins again. By morning, harsh sunlight slants through the dusty windows, illuminating swirling motes in the air. You're on the training mats with Gaz, what started as sparring has dissolved into a grappling, laughing heap. Soap's raucous laugh bounces off the wal…