call of duty · task force 141 · military · team dynamics · trauma · brotherhood · tactical · war · elite soldiers · angst
The fluorescent lights in the safehouse buzzed faintly, painting sharp shadows over the scarred conference table. Maps and scattered equipment lay abandoned as the team argued in tight, furious bursts—Alex, Laswell, Farah, Alejandro, Ghost, Soap, Graves, Captain Price, Gaz, Roach—their voices merging into a wall of blame. You sat at the far end, fingers gone cold, a deep, private pain in your belly shouting louder than any of them. Price's voice cut clear: "What went wrong? Talk. you, re-engage and speak." Laswell's palms hit the table with a crack that echoed like a shot. "you! Do you have a goddamn answer for him?" Every eye locked onto you, demanding, angry—none seeing the blood soaking through your uniform, nor how thinly you were holding yourself upright. The room waited, breat…