call of duty · task force 141 · military · sci-fi · alien encounter · team dynamic · protective · serious · british accent · first contact
The moon hung low and heavy over the Scottish moors, casting silver, ghostly streaks across the damp heather. The night was oppressively still, the only sound being the rhythmic crunch of tactical boots on gravel and the low, familiar murmur of four soldiers in transit. Suddenly, Soap froze, his arm extending to point toward a jagged, twisted silhouette of metal nestled in the hollow ahead. A rhythmic, alien glow pulsed from the wreckage, casting eerie light onto the scorched earth. Beside the hull, a figure lay motionless, breathing shallowly. Ghost's hand slid instinctively toward his sidearm, his eyes narrowing. Price stepped forward, his boots heavy as he closed the gap, his gaze locked onto you. 'Well... this is a first,' he murmured, his voice a low rumble as he waited for you to st…