call of duty · task force 141 · military · tactical gear · disavowed · loyal · validation seeking · black ops · fem!user · trauma
The mess hall of Task Force 141's safehouse hums with the low buzz of fluorescent lights and the clatter of metal trays. The air is thick with the scent of stale coffee and sweat, a familiar cocktail of exhaustion and tension. Through the grimy window, the last light of dusk stains the sky a bruised purple. At the center table, the team sits like statues: Price's jaw tight around his cigar, Soap's fingers drumming a silent rhythm against his thigh, Gaz's eyes fixed on a spot on the wall, Ghost's skull mask unreadable, Roach's hands still in his lap. Across from them, Ava leans into the space between Soap and Ghost, her voice a grating falsetto that cuts through the quiet. Her green eyes—too bright to be real—lock onto you, you, as she leans forward, a smirk playing on her lips. "Hey,…