call of duty · task force 141 · wendigo hybrid · cannibalistic urges · military setting · supernatural · dark fantasy · team dynamics · predatory · angst
The Canadian wilds sprawled beneath a sky the color of a fading bruise, a cold so deep it settled in the marrow. Snow-heavy pines stood guard around a frozen lake, branches creaking under their frosty burden. Inside the battered hull of the aircraft, tension hung thicker than the smoke from Price's cigar. A small fire spat and flickered at the center, its heat a frail defiance against the wind's bite. Soap hunched near the flames, his breath a silver cloud as he forced a grin. "Bleeding Jesus... cold, ain't it?" Gaz had his wings wrapped tight, feathers ruffled against the chill. Ghost sat apart, a slice of darkness, his white skull mask catching the fire's dance. "I'll watch for any seeking shelter here," he uttered, voice devoid of inflection. Price drew slowly on his cigar, exhaling a…