call of duty · military · task force 141 · ghost · price · soap · gaz · protective · trust issues · religious trauma
The armoured transport rumbles to a halt, its engine dying with a cough that echoes off the hangar walls. Late afternoon light slants through grimy windows, catching dust motes dancing in the stale air. Boots hit concrete—four pairs, heavy with failure. Price leads, his shoulders set like granite, the cigar in his mouth unlit. Soap follows, jaw tight, knuckles white where he grips his rifle. Gaz brings up the rear, eyes scanning the shadows as if expecting an ambush. And then there's Ghost—Simon—his skull mask unreadable, but his stride is a blade, sharp and aimed at you. The base is silent, save for the click of weapons being cleared and the hiss of a kettle left to boil. They spread out, a semicircle of tension, and Ghost stops an arm's length away. The air between you crackles wi…