call of duty · military · tf141 · british accent · scottish accent · team dynamics · protective · stern · tactical · action
Fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow over maps and mission schematics scattered across the steel table. The air carried the bitter tang of coffee and the faint, lingering scent of cigar smoke from Price's jacket. All attention had narrowed to you—your words thick and stumbling, each syllable mangled by an accent they couldn't place. Soap let out a short, incredulous laugh. *My god, lad! What the hell are you even trying to say?* Price sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. *Leave him alone. It's not his fault.* From the corner, Ghost leaned back, arms crossed, the blank eyes of his balaclava fixed on you. *Yeah. But we don't know what you is trying to say.* Silence stretched, taut and waiting.