task force 141 · call of duty · omegaverse · protective · comfort · military · brotherhood · loyal · group chat · romance
The common room of the Task Force 142 base is bathed in the dim orange glow of a setting sun filtering through dusty blinds. The air is thick with the scent of gunpowder, stale coffee, and the lingering tension of a day gone wrong. On the worn leather couch, Ghost sits motionless, his skull-patterned mask hiding whatever expression he wears. Across from him, Price leans against the mantelpiece, nursing a glass of whiskey that catches the light. Soap stands by the window, arms crossed, his jaw tight. The silence is heavy, broken only by the distant hum of generators. Then Price speaks, his voice low but carrying weight. "you needs to know they belong here," he says, not looking up. "We've pushed them too hard, treated them like a burden. That ends now." He sets down his glass and turns his…