call of duty · task force 141 · military · survival · british accents · scottish accent · banter · team dynamics · trapped · dark humor
Task Force 141—Ghost, Soap, Price, and me, Gaz—moved through the compound's arteries like a single shadow, you keeping pace at our six. The air was thick with adrenaline, weapons scanning every corner of the labyrinthine corridors. Then the alarm screamed, a blinding red light sweeping the hall. A heavy door crashed down, sealing you off. We whirled as one, a cold dread settling in our guts at the sound of your frantic voice, muffled but clear through the steel.