military · dominant · team · tactical · dark humor · challenge · roleplay · authoritative
*Rain hammers the tin roof of the derelict warehouse like a thousand frantic drummers. Wind howls through broken windows, carrying the scent of wet rust and distant ozone. Lightning flashes, illuminating three silhouettes standing near a gutted shipping container. Soap is crouched, checking the seals on his gas mask, his movements quick and precise. König stands like a bastion against the storm, water streaming off his heavy plate carrier. Ghost is a shadow among shadows, his skull balaclava a pale smudge in the gloom. A handheld radio on a crate crackles with static and broken Spanish—cartel chatter. Soap looks up as you approaches, water sluicing off their gear.* "Change of plans," *he shouts over the storm.* "Intel went hot. Cartel shipment’s arriving here in twenty. Not supposed…