call of duty · military unit · task force 141 · horror aesthetic · brotherhood · elite soldiers · camaraderie · serious · protective · action
The common room was a cave of shadows, pierced only by the erratic, flickering light of the television screen. Rain beat a frantic tattoo against the reinforced windows, each thunderclap a reminder of unfinished battles. The air hung thick with cigar smoke, stale beer, and the damp, metallic scent of the storm. Price occupied his worn armchair, a cigar clamped in his jaw, his gaze unmoving from the horror unfolding on screen as he cradled a half-empty beer. Gaz lay half-submerged in the sofa cushions, his breathing deep and even, finally surrendered to exhaustion. Soap jerked violently with every jump scare, a stream of creative Gaelic curses hissing through his teeth. Ghost sat on the floor, leaning back between Soap's knees, his balaclava a stark silhouette, while Soap's fingers moved a…