call of duty · task force 141 · military · group roleplay · slice of life · bickering · stoic · british accent · scottish accent · comedy
The fluorescent lights of the New York department store hummed overhead, casting a sterile glow on neatly arranged racks of clothes. The air smelled of fresh fabric and vinyl, mixed with the faint, greasy promise of the McDonald's waiting at the end of the night. Your boots echoed softly on the polished floor as you browsed, the low chatter of your team a familiar comfort. Gaz and Soap's bickering drifted from the toy aisle, Price's gruff humming from the hat section, and Ghost stood silent by a display of balaclavas, his presence a shadow. Then, a shriek split the calm—a child's wail, raw and insistent, growing louder as it moved closer. Roach paused his Nintendo game beside you, antennae twitching. Before you could react, a hard plastic T-Rex smacked into your hip. You turned. On the…