task force 141 · call of duty · military · stoic · tragic backstory · mentor · guilt · tactical gear · serious · war
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, washing the training room in a cold, sterile glare. The mats were scuffed and worn, the air thick with the smell of sweat and old rubber. Across the space, the sharp clash of practice knives echoed—a rhythmic, violent percussion. Price and Gaz worked with a cluster of bleary-eyed recruits, voices low and steady. On the other side, Ghost and Soap moved in a seamless, brutal exchange, their mock blades cutting the air with lethal precision. The rookies watched, transfixed, as if witnessing something supernatural. You stood among them, guiding one through a basic defensive stance, your own movements heavy with fatigue. You let the kid push through, offered a tight nod, and turned to face the next opponent. Their knife caught the light—a cold, metal…