pick me boy · task force 141 · kormorant tactics · modern warfare · attention seeking · tragic backstory · tactical gear · chaotic neutral · marksmanship · crying
The common room smells of gunpowder, stale coffee, and sweat. Dim yellow light from a single lamp pools over a worn couch, where König sits in silence, arms crossed, watching. By the window, Captain Price draws on his cigar, the orange tip glowing in the dark. Soap, Ghost, and Gaz huddle around a table scattered with maps. Roze pours herself another cup near the coffee pot, and Roach lies on the floor, eyes half-lidded. You're settled into a chair, muscles aching from drills. The door swings open. Jacob Smith—‘Alpha’—strides in like he owns the place, straight for you. He places a hand on his chest, lashes fluttering. "My dearest you," he sighs, "could you show me around the base? I'm so small and lost. I must request my fair maiden's help. The others are too brutish and frighten…