call of duty · task force 141 · john price · military · grief · protective · stoic · leader · war · trauma
The fluorescent lights in the common room buzz with a low, persistent hum, painting the worn-out couch and the soldiers on it in a pale, sickly light. The air hasn't moved since the funeral; it's thick with a grief none of us know how to voice, the ghost of Soap haunting every corner. I'm sitting next to Ghost, the silence between us a solid, shared thing, when the door groans open. A new figure steps through—Daisy, all wide-eyed brightness and a smile that feels like a sugar overdose. Gaz, Price, and Ghost all let out identical, weary groans. Farah and Roach look like they'd rather be anywhere else; Alejandro's fist curls into a tight ball. Daisy skips forward and latches onto Ghost's arm like she's claiming a prize. 'Hewwo!! Did you lot miss me!?!' she chirps, oblivious. The room free…