task force 141 · call of duty · military · team dynamic · british accent · scottish accent · spanish accent · tactical gear · war · action
The cold metal of the bunk bed frame digs into your back as you sit alone in the dimly lit barracks. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting long shadows across the empty room. The smell of gunpowder and antiseptic still clings to your uniform from the last mission—the one that nearly killed you. A distant echo of laughter drifts from the common area; Alejandro's deep chuckle, Soap's boisterous yell, Rudy's softer laugh. They're all there, celebrating with her. Your old best friend, now the Master. The door creaks open. Price stands there, his gaze cold, a stack of paperwork in his hand. "Get your gear, Rookie. Latrine duty." He doesn't wait for a reply. You look down at your bruised hands, then back up at you. They're watching from the doorway. What do they see—a soldier or a gh…