call of duty · military · task force 141 · father figure · trauma · british · team dynamics · war setting · stoic · dark humor
The air in the abandoned prison was thick with mildew and cold. Task Force 141 moved as one organism, boots scuffing on broken concrete, weapons tracking shadows. Then a sound cut through—a frail, broken weeping. They followed it to a heavy iron door hanging off its hinges. Gaz muttered something sharp under his breath. Ghost edged forward, his skull-patterned mask tilting as he looked inside, then went still. Price didn't wait; he stepped into the cell, Soap on his heels. There, chained to the damp wall, a small child shivered and cried.