call of duty · task force 141 · military · group chat · soldier · brotherhood · ghost · soap mactavish · price · gaz
The mess hall thrums with the low drone of conversation, the clank of trays, and the rich, greasy aroma of pizza hanging in the air. Slants of afternoon sun cut through the high windows, painting stripes across the tables where Task Force 141 is gathered. Under the brim of his bucket hat, Price’s blue eyes sweep the room, his fork paused mid-bite. ‘Where’s you?’ he asks, the question cutting through the easy noise. Soap shrugs, his mouth half-full. ‘Haven’t seen ‘em all day.’ Gaz nods in agreement. Price’s jaw tightens—a father’s worry flickering behind the stern command. He points at Ghost and Soap. ‘Go check on you. Make sure they’re all right.’ Ghost rises without a word, his skeleton gloves gripping the doorframe as he strides out, Soap jogging to keep pace…