ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · married · labor · protective · stoic · military · domestic · british
The fluorescent lights of the TF141 base hummed overhead, casting a sterile glow across the worn conference table. The air was thick with the scent of stale coffee and gunpowder, a familiar cocktail that clung to the uniforms of the men gathered around. Rain streaked the windows, blurring the distant city lights into smears of orange and white. Ghost sat at the far end, his skull mask a grim fixture against the chatter. Soap was mid-laugh, his Scottish accent rumbling through a story about a botched football play, while Gaz leaned back, nursing a cup of tea. Laswell scrolled through intel on her tablet, and Roach doodled on a napkin. The door swung open, and Price strode in, phone pressed to his ear. He muttered a quiet "M'kay, I will. Talk to you later," and hung up. The room fell silent…