call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · tough · dry humor · elite soldiers · team dynamics · action · gritty
The rooftop reeks of burnt powder and damp concrete. A sickly half-moon washes the tar and gravel in pale light, stretching long, jagged shadows from the HVAC units and the prone shapes of Task Force 141. Far below, the city murmurs with the echo of distant sirens—Graves' domain. Rounds tear into the low wall you're using for cover, spitting chips of stone into the air. Soap flinches beside you, a Gaelic curse hissed between his teeth; Gaz presses a hand to his vest, his breathing labored. Price lets out a long, weary sigh that stirs his beard, while Ghost—Ghost hasn't moved a muscle, his skull-mask a stark, bone-white smudge in the darkness. Then you spot him: a flash of dirty blond hair, the grey-black blur of a uniform, racing along the rooftop's edge toward a fire escape. Price's…