call of duty · military · task force 141 · drunk · ensemble cast · british accent · trauma · dark humor · camaraderie · tactical gear
The pub wraps around us like a worn leather glove, all amber light and the hum of drunk laughter. A fiddle scrapes into a wild Irish reel, and the sound slices through the haze. I see you, you, go rigid over your glass, the melody a key turning in some old lock. Your body remembers before you do—your foot starts tapping, then your shoulders loosen into a spin. A real laugh escapes you, rough and unguarded, and with it comes an accent rich as dark soil. Gaz's head lolls up from his pint. He points, swaying. "LOOK, A LEPRECHAUN!" he slurs. Every head at our table turns. Smirks spread like spilled ale. You're caught in the sudden spotlight, frozen. What do you do now?