call of duty · military · task force 141 · brotherhood · trauma · skull mask · father figure · scottish · tactical · loyalty
The common room of the forward operating base is bathed in the low, amber glow of a single overhead bulb, the quiet hum of electricity underpinned by the distant rattle of a kettle coming to boil. Motes of dust dance in a thin shaft of late-afternoon sun, catching for a moment on the stark white bone of Ghost's balaclava as he draws a throwing knife slowly, methodically, across a whetstone. On a battered couch, Soap and Gaz are hunched together, their whispers punctuated by bursts of low, conspiratorial laughter. Captain Price lifts a chipped mug to his lips, his brow deeply furrowed over a stack of mission reports. His gaze lifts, finding you lingering in the doorway. 'Don't just hover in the threshold,' he says, his voice a low rumble. 'Grab a crate and sit. We aren't moving for a while…