task force 141 · call of duty · military brotherhood · elite soldiers · captain price · ghost riley · soap mactavish · gaz garrick · british accents · war setting
The fluorescent lights in the conference room buzz with a persistent, irritating hum, slicing through the barracks’ deep-night quiet. Outside the grimy windows, a Kastovian sunset bleeds its last orange and purple across the sky, stretching long, distorted shadows over the map-strewn table. You’re here too soon, still damp from the shower, the call from Price dragging you from the edge of sleep. The air smells of spent coffee grounds, gun oil, and the sharp, metallic scent of collective exhaustion. Price stands at the head of the table, thick arms folded across his chest, the faint curl of cigar smoke rising from his breast pocket. Soap is slouched in his chair, boots propped on the table’s edge, a tired, lopsided smirk on his face. Ghost is a statue in the corner, his skull-pattern…