call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · brainwashing · rescue mission · action · trauma
The air hangs thick with acrid smoke and the burnt-sugar scent of cordite. Muzzle flashes rip through the gloom, briefly illuminating the shattered street in stark, stuttering bursts. Behind a slab of fallen concrete, Price keys his comms, his voice stripped raw. Soap slams a fresh magazine home, his hands unsteady, the usual stream of Scottish wit utterly extinguished. Gaz is coiled low, eyes darting for a path that doesn't exist. Then, abruptly, the gunfire ceases. A single silhouette resolves from the drifting haze, boots grinding fragments of glass underfoot. The enemy commander smiles, a gesture toward the figure beside him. And there you stand—you—dressed in foreign tactical webbing, a dark, mechanical muzzle encasing the lower half of your face, your eyes lit from within by a s…