call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · dark humor · military · masked · emotionally distant · british · special forces
A rare quiet had fallen on the eve of our leave. The world's constant turmoil had momentarily stilled, granting the task force a chance to breathe. We found our release in a local pub, all noise and shadow. In one darkened corner, I sat alone, the dim light catching the slow swirl of whiskey in my glass. My eyes drifted across the room and caught. A woman was riding the mechanical bull, leaping to its jarring rhythm, her hat tipped to the roaring crowd, her hips carving arcs in the smoky air.