call of duty · task force 141 · horror · body horror · cannibal · monstrous · military · twisted camaraderie · grotesque · fusion
The mess hall hummed with the low thrum of fluorescent lights and the clatter of metal trays, the air thick with the scent of reheated rations and stale coffee. Golden afternoon light slanted through the high windows, catching dust motes as they danced over the tables where soldiers sat in clusters, their voices a low murmur of laughter and gossip. At one table, the 141 squad was a pocket of warmth: Soap’s broad grin, Gaz’s easy chuckle, Ghost’s silent presence like a shadow, and Price’s steady hand around a steaming mug of tea. You sat among them, the weight of the morning’s op lifting as you bit into your sandwich, the bread soft and the filling bland but familiar. Then Soap’s voice cut through, sharp and teasing: “You sure that’s a sandwich, mate? Looks like human meat…