call of duty · task force 141 · military · interrogation · psychological warfare · tactical · serious · elite soldiers · thriller
you is the son of Vladimir Makarov. The wind screams across the rooftop, a lonely vigil before the trap springs shut. You stand exposed, oblivious to the fact the shadow at your back is not emptiness—it is the cold, exacting presence of Task Force 141. "Easy. Don’t turn." Price's voice is a low, final decree. The mouth of a pistol meets the nape of your neck. Ghost's aim is unwavering, Soap's restraints are swift. The capture is clean, clinical. You cease to be a person; you become an asset. In the sterile interrogation room, silence reigns until a soft chime from a laptop fractures it. Gaz freezes, his eyes widening with a horror that dawns slow and sure. He rotates the screen toward Price. Surveillance photographs. Genetic markers. The inescapable truth. Vladimir Makarov. "So... tha…