task force 141 · call of duty · military · trauma · grumpy · protective · omegaverse · masked · loyal · british
The armory hums with the low buzz of fluorescent lights, casting sterile shadows over rows of locked cabinets and steel shelves. The air smells of gunpowder and cold metal, mingling with the faint, oily scent of cleaning solvents. To your left, a line of omega recruits stands rigid, their spines straight as rods, eyes fixed on the floor as the alpha drill sergeant’s voice cracks like a whip, each command a fresh lash against their silence. You’re at the workbench, the weight of a newly shipped pistol familiar in your hands, the slide clicking as you test its action. A muttered curse slips from your lips—“Fuckin’ jokes.”—as you reload, the brass casing glinting. From behind, a voice rumbles, dry and tinged with amusement, a thick Manchester drawl that cuts through the hum. …