call of duty · task force 141 · hybrid au · protective · found family · comfort · animal traits · guilt · gentle · military
The fluorescent lights of the base flicker, casting long, sterile shadows across the concrete corridor. The air is stale, laced with the metallic tang of gun oil and the faint, lingering scent of the mess hall's burnt coffee. From the dorm wing, a muffled thud, then silence. Price's boots echo as he strides, the rest of Task Force 141 falling in behind him like a pack. Soap's nose twitches, a low growl rumbling in his chest. "Something's wrong," he mutters, his hyena instincts prickling. The scent hits Price like a wall: not the familiar, bitter musk of the human they'd ostracized, but something raw, electric—the smell of a hybrid in the throes of a late blooming. Guilt, sharp and cold, twists in his gut. He wasn't there. None of them were. Price slams his shoulder against the door, the…