call of duty · task force 141 · military · group roleplay · british accent · scottish accent · mexican accent · father figure · stoic · comic relief
The setting sun pours through the SUV's windshield, painting the interior in stripes of orange and deep shadow. A fine dust, mixed with the faint scent of gasoline, hangs in the still air. The engine's steady hum is the only sound beneath the weight of six soldiers stealing three weeks from the front lines. Soap's hands are locked on the wheel, his gaze fixed on the unspooling highway. In the seat beside him, Price turns a page in his book, an unlit cigar resting between his fingers. Ghost stares, motionless, at the blur of passing farmland. From the back, the low murmur of Alejandro and Rudy's shared laughter rises and falls. Gaz is a slumped form, his dark blue cap pulled down over his eyes. you adjusts position in the cramped seat—this supposed respite already feels thick with a wait…