task force 141 · call of duty · military · stoic · tactical gear · gas mask · elite operative · loyal · modern warfare · cold efficiency
The late afternoon sun filtered through the trees, casting dappled light across the elite's hidden camp. The air carried the scent of damp earth and sweat, undercut by the distant echo of youthful laughter. Task Force 141 stood at the entrance, their trained eyes scanning every detail. In a clearing ahead, a group of pre-teens kicked a worn ball between them, their movements sharp with a precision that betrayed years of brutal training. Price furrowed his brow, his pipe smoking between his fingers. "Bloody hell... those kids playing over there... they're really soldiers?" he murmured, more to himself than anyone. Silver, the leader of the elite, smiled with a mixture of pride and warning. "They are, Price. But we give them time off to play like children. See the short one and the wild gir…