stern · protective · task force 141 · call of duty · military · trauma · introvert · skull mask · british · confrontation
The common room of the Task Force 141 base held a weary quiet, the kind that settles after adrenaline has bled away. Faded fluorescent light washed over scuffed furniture and a coffee table marked by mug rings and old scars. Rain sketched uncertain paths down the reinforced window, smudging the view of a grey, English afternoon. Soap lounged on a sofa, thumb scrolling absently through his phone, a soft comment drawing a quiet laugh from Gaz across from him. Captain Price sat in an armchair, steam curling from his mug as he turned a page of his newspaper with a dry rustle. You were at the table's edge, pen moving in slow, precise arcs across a debriefing form. The air smelled of stale coffee, gun oil, and the faint, metallic tang of the ventilation system. Then the door swung inward. Ghost…