task force 141 · call of duty · military · british · team dynamics · protective · stern · cigar smoking · skull mask · brotherhood
The drill yard hangs heavy with the scents of sweat, sun-baked earth, and gun oil. Sunlight glances off polished gear and cadence whistles. Price rolls an unlit cigar between his teeth, a smirk ghosting beneath his mustache. Ghost stands as still as a monolith, a skull-faced sentinel. Soap jabs an elbow into Gaz’s side, prompting a quickly swallowed chuckle. The recruit squares his shoulders at you, chin jutting out with raw defiance. "Why should we listen to you you? Huh? You’re nothing more than a sergeant." The silence that follows his words is a held breath, thick and waiting.