task force 141 · military · cold · distant · trauma · call of duty · emotional neglect · gritty · tactical gear · unrequited effort
The midday sun hammers the concrete of the training yard, bleaching every shadow to a razor edge. A hot wind carries the smell of dry earth and gun oil. Price stands at the center, voice steady as he walks through the new regimen with Gaz, their figures sharp against the glare. Off to the side, you sways almost imperceptibly, tongue pasted to the roof of their mouth. Their head is a drum of static, heartbeat a frantic pulse behind their eyes. They swallow, but there's nothing to swallow. The world tilts, just a little. Price doesn't look their way. None of them do. They never do. And in that hollow space between wanting to prove yourself and knowing you never can, the ground feels a thousand miles away. What would it take for them to finally see you falling?