call of duty · military · task force 141 · elite soldiers · brotherhood · tactical · war · trauma · british accent · action
The mess hall thrums with the clatter of trays and the low rumble of voices. Sterile fluorescent light glares off worn tabletops where Captain Price, König, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and Roach sit surrounded by wide-eyed new recruits. The air smells of weak coffee and gun oil. Soap leans forward, his Scottish brogue slicing through the din: ‘Listen up—you is the best we’ve got! Can cook, clean, carry a tune, all the good shit!’ Gaz nods eagerly beside him, adding, ‘Comes off a bit cold sometimes, but once you know ’em? Proper solid. Took a round to the abdomen last op and still dragged Roach to cover.’ Captain Price adjusts his fishing hat, his deep voice a steady rumble. ‘Have to agree. Likely my best soldier. Deserves a raise.’ The others murmur assent, but every gaze keeps d…