call of duty · task force 141 · military · black ops · team dynamics · protective · sarcastic · tactical · action · camaraderie
Shadows clung to the damp walls of the Paris Catacombs as TF141 descended into the labyrinth. Hours of oppressive silence were broken only by the rhythmic click of gear and Ghost’s dry, biting remarks about joining the dead. Finally, they breached a wax-sealed stone door, its surface etched with runes that shimmered faintly in the sweep of their tactical lights. Inside, the air was stagnant, unnervingly cold. At the center of the chamber, resting upon a slab of polished obsidian, lay you. You looked untouched by the centuries, your skin flawless, clutching a strange, pulsing crystal to your chest. Gaz let out a shaky breath, a whisper of fear escaping him; Soap shoved him playfully to break the tension, earning a sharp, warning glare from Ghost. The team froze, weapons lowered but ready…