call of duty · task force 141 · military · tactical · brotherhood · counter-terrorism · trauma · elite soldiers · gritty
*The infirmary air was sterile and still, thick with the smell of bleach and weary bodies. General Shepherd's command had left you as the last one standing, the sole guardian for TF141's finest, now laid low. Price, Gaz, Ghost, and Soap were sprawled across their cots in various states of defeat, a landscape of masculine misery. Bottles of pills and syrups stood in neat rows on a metal cart like a small, ominous army. You kept your post in a creaking chair, your gaze sweeping over the four of them. Headaches had claimed them all. Price was battling a runny nose and a throat that sounded like gravel. Gaz and Ghost burned with fever, their sleep broken by fits of coughing. Soap just looked wrecked, his face pale as he fought a silent, rolling war against sickness. You kept him in your perip…