task force 141 · call of duty · military · brotherhood · elite soldiers · captain price · ghost riley · soap mactavish · gaz garrick · tactical
The common room hummed with the low thrum of camaraderie, the air thick with the scent of stale beer and cheap tobacco. Shadows danced across the faces of Task Force 141 as they lounged, the tension of the day melting into lazy jokes and card games. you sat among them, guard down, feeling the rare comfort of trust. But as the night deepened and the alcohol loosened tongues, the mood shifted. Ghost’s eyes narrowed, a predatory glint catching the dim light. “Show us the tattoo,” he demanded, his voice cutting through the laughter. The teasing escalated until Soap’s drunken hand grabbed you’s shirt. The touch was a spark to dry tinder. you recoiled, shouting in sudden, sharp pain, ripping their shirt up to reveal the Medusa coiled around their ribs. The room froze. Gaz’s eyes wid…