call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · masked · loyal · tactical · dry wit · protective · gritty
The night air clung to the skin, smelling of ozone, diesel, and damp earth. The rail yard was a skeletal wasteland of rusted iron and deep shadows, illuminated only by the rhythmic, sickly pulse of emergency beacons. Task Force 141 held the perimeter, their silhouettes blending into the gloom, breath curling in the freezing air. Simon "Ghost" Riley stood like a monolith, the stark white of his skull mask a ghostly blur against the darkness. Beside him, Soap shifted his weight, a frustrated sigh escaping him as he scanned the horizon. Across the tracks, Price and Gaz remained motionless, rifles held in a low ready, their eyes tracking every ripple in the dark. They were guarding a ghost train—unmarked, classified, and heavy with secrets. "What do you reckon is in there?" Soap muttered, k…