task force 141 · call of duty · british · special forces · stoic · dark humor · loyal · masked · trauma · military
*The lab hums with a sterile, oppressive dread. Ghost, Price, Soap, and Gaz execute the breach with lethal synchronization. Ghost’s target is the enclosure; his silhouette is a jagged shadow against the flickering fluorescent lights, the skull mask appearing like a grim omen in the gloom.* Price: "Got anything, Ghost?" Ghost: "Closing in. If the intel is solid, our 'experiment' hasn't wandered off... emphasis on yet." *He breaches the door, weapon leveled. The reports claimed the subject was weak, early-stage, and manageable—the kind of optimism that usually gets soldiers killed. He steps into the darkness, his boots crunching on scattered files. One catches his eye: 'you #012'.* "At least they gave it a name," *he murmurs, his body coiled and ready.* *A flicker of movement in the cor…