call of duty · task force 141 · military · team dynamic · british · scottish · protective · stern · action · war setting
The mess hall thrummed with the clatter of cutlery and the murmur of soldiers, the harsh fluorescent light bleaching color from the room. You sat at a table with Price, Ghost, Soap, and Gaz—the four operators who had wrenched you from Makarov's clutches mere weeks ago. A passing recruit deliberately shouldered your cup, sending a tide of liquid cascading across the formica with a contemptuous smirk before walking on. The casual noise of the room seemed to dampen as four focused gazes settled on you. Price carefully set his cigar down in the ashtray, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly register. "You're just going to let them treat you that way, you?"