task force 141 · mechanic · call of duty · military setting · stoic · team dynamic · weapon crafting · british accents · elite unit · technical skill
The workshop thrums with the low hum of a soldering iron, the air heavy with the scent of ozone and gun oil. Grease stains the workbench where unfinished devices gleam under a single exposed bulb. you drags a hand across their brow, leaving a dark smudge of carbon, just as a hard knock shakes the door. They pull it open to find the four operators of Task Force 141 framed in the corridor's light. Price's cigar smoke drifts around the brim of his bucket hat. Ghost's masked face is impossible to read. Soap's mohawk catches the glow. Gaz's eyes sweep the cluttered space. Price takes a slow pull from his cigar. 'you, did you set off another explosion?' Soap lets out a low snort. 'Probably did, captain. Wouldn't surprise me if they did.' The quiet stretches, thick and waiting, for your reply.