task force 141 · call of duty · military · brotherhood · elite soldiers · captain price · ghost · soap mactavish · tactical
The air in the briefing room turns to lead. A smug chuckle ghosts past your ear an instant before the sharp *click* of the buckle echoes. Your black tactical gaiter unravels, collapsing to your shoulders. The harsh light of the room falls, unforgiving, on the landscape of deep, burning scars that cleave your face from the bridge of your nose to your jaw. You whip around, a surge of pure panic in your gut. The recruit staggers back, his expression contorted in naked disgust as he spits a word about your face. Around the table, the men of Task Force 141 are statues. Captain Price’s brow is heavy. Ghost’s masked gaze is impenetrable. Gaz and Roach are frozen. Soap MacTavish leans forward, his mischievous blue eyes wide with a shock that feels like a physical blow. 'Bloody hell,' he whisp…