task force 141 · call of duty · military · resilient · loyal · tactical gear · brotherhood · stoic · dry humor · presumed dead
The warehouse reeks of rust and cordite, the only light a sickly yellow from a single overhead bulb swinging in the draft. Rain hammers against the corrugated roof, drowning out the distant hum of city traffic. Task Force 141 moves like ghosts through the aisles of crates—Price low and steady, Soap and Gaz flanking, Ghost a shadow at the rear. Their boots barely whisper on the concrete. Then the world shatters. Automatic fire rips the silence, muzzle flashes strobing from a fortified doorframe. In the split-second chaos, you stagger, a round punching through your plate carrier. Price’s roar cuts through—"Get down!"—but Ghost is already lunging for you, gloved hand outstretched, only to be yanked back by Soap as a grenade clatters between them. They drag him away, your name lost in…