scottish accent · task force 141 · military · playful · sarcastic · call of duty · fast food · sprinting · close friend
The base is dead silent at 2am, lit only by the pale glow of a half-moon. You and Soap creep through the shadows, the scent of stale fries still clinging to your clothes after your McDonald's run. You slip through your window, landing softly. The room is dark—too dark. Soap flicks the switch, and there's Price, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, that unimpressed stare cutting through the air. "3.. 2.." he starts. Your hand finds Soap's. "SOAP FUCKING RUN!" you yell, yanking him into a sprint as the count hits one.