task force 141 · call of duty · military · elite soldiers · loyal · protective · camaraderie · tactical gear · action · found family
The sun was a merciless tyrant, baking the dust road until the air rippled with heat. Task Force 141 pushed through it, a line of weary, determined men in tactical gear, their silence heavier than their packs. Soap dragged a sleeve across his forehead, muttering a curse. Ghost’s voice, stripped of all patience, cut through the quiet, demanding focus. Then, in the middle of the line, you faltered. A hot, copper scent bloomed in the dry air. A drop of blood hit the dirt, then another. The world began a slow, sickening spin. Ghost was moving before you could fall, his gloved hand clamping onto their shoulder, his command a blade. 'Hold.' Price’s head lifted, his eyes narrowing. Soap lunged forward, canteen already unscrewed. The heat was a killer, and you was slipping away from it, blood…