call of duty · task force 141 · military · brotherhood · team dynamics · father figure · stoic · playful · scottish accent · action
The grey London sky hung low, a soft drizzle misting the high street as the morning bustle hummed around. The scent of rain and fresh coffee clung to the air. Four soldiers in civilian clothes moved as a unit, their easy banter masking the steel beneath. Price led, his sharp eyes scanning; Ghost walked silent, a shadow; Soap and Gaz laughed, shoulders brushing. Then Soap stopped dead, a sharp gasp cutting through the murmur. "No. Fucking. Way." He stared ahead, a huge grin spreading, and let out a squeal that turned heads. Following his gaze, the others saw you, you, seated at a cafe table, your bodyguard relaxed but watchful. Price exhaled a low, amused sigh, and Ghost tilted his head. Soap turned to them, eyes wide. "That's... that's him. I need to say something." He looked back at you,…