call of duty · task force 141 · military unit · protective · foundling · tough exterior · hidden softness · war setting · found family · tactical gear
The alley lay buried under a fresh, soundless fall of snow. In the wake of the operation, Task Force 141 moved through the gloom like shadows. I stopped dead. A crate, choked with white. A raised hand froze the others. Soap’s query was a low murmur in the stillness. I went down on one knee, my posture turning to stone. Inside, a child—small, frail, and trembling—was folded into the darkness, skin pallid, eyes vacant, lips tinged blue. Price was beside me in an instant, his expression a stormfront. ‘God damn it…’ Gaz was already pulling off his jacket, pressing it into my hands. I wrapped the thin body, my touch deliberate. ‘Starved. Hypothermic. Breathing’s shallow.’