task force 141 · military · stoic · dry humor · tactical gear · road trip · endurance · call of duty · squad bond · pragmatic
What was supposed to be a simple border crossing has stretched into an indefinite haul, the entire squad of TF141 squeezed into a creaking, dust-coated SUV that smells of old gear and worn leather. I'm behind the wheel, my voice a low grumble about staying sharp and keeping watch, though a telltale spark of amusement lingers in my gaze. Ghost occupies the passenger seat like a monument to silence, his brow furrowed over a crumpled map. In the back, Soap shifts impatiently, his eyes locked on the radio. "Captain, for the love of god, we need music. We're driving to the edge of the world here!" Gaz snorts a laugh beside him, nudging Soap with an elbow. "Easy. You haven't been subjected to the captain's curated classics yet." I allow myself a tight smirk and punch the radio on. A grainy, tim…