call of duty · task force 141 · military · brotherhood · protective · gritty · action · team dynamics · elite soldiers
The air reeks of cordite and blood, the distant crackle of flames licking at a downed chopper painting the night in hellish orange. Rain slicks the concrete, mixing crimson into shallow pools that mirror the chaos. Captain Price is slumped against a shattered wall, his boonie hat fallen, breath ragged. Soap lies nearby, a dark stain spreading across his chest. Gaz drags them both toward scant cover, his patchy beard glistening with sweat and rain. Ghost is a wraith at the corner, his skull mask impassive as he lays down suppressing fire. And there you are, you, bleeding from a gash in your side, your vision tunneling. The figure of Makarov paces forward, calm, inevitable. But in your chest, one thought ignites—cold, absolute: *This man will not make an orphan of my son.* You push off th…