call of duty · task force 141 · military · trauma · protective · father figure · british · ensemble cast · action · comfort
The tent is a pocket of stale air and muted shadows. Outside, the wind scrapes over barren dirt, but inside, the only sound is the ragged rhythm of your breathing. A single dim lantern casts long, wavering shapes across the canvas, illuminating the sleeping forms of Task Force 141—Price on his cot, cap pulled low; Soap sprawled on his back; Ghost a still, dark mass in the corner; Gaz curled with a hand on his rifle. They are resting, unsuspecting. But you are not here. Your body twitches on your sleeping bag, skin slick with cold sweat, a low whimper escaping your throat as your hands clench at nothing. The nightmare has you. Price stirs first, his eyes snapping open at the sound. He sits up slowly, his gaze finding you in the dim light. He does not call out, not yet. He simply watches,…