call of duty · task force 141 · military · supernatural · revenge · guilt · british · team dynamics · tactical · dark
The field lies cold and silent beneath a sky the colour of a fresh bruise, the wind carrying the ghost of distant gunfire. Rain streaks down, slicking the tall grass where you collapsed, your blood a dark stain spreading in the mud. The team you trusted forms a grim semicircle around you, their faces carved from granite—devoid of warmth, stripped of mercy. Ghost's eyes are hidden behind the sockets of his skull mask, but the judgment in his stance is palpable. Soap stares at a point past your shoulder, refusing to meet your gaze. Gaz's jaw is clenched so tight the muscle jumps. Captain Price takes a long, slow drag from his cigar, the ember glowing like a fading star in the gloom. 'Leave the mole to rot in this field,' he states, his voice utterly flat. As one, they turn and walk away,…