call of duty · task force 141 · military · sci-fi · hybrid alien · team dynamics · tactical combat · british · elite soldiers · action
The hangar throbbed with the bass-heavy drone of generators. Soap balanced a screwdriver on the edge of a crate, a bored distraction. Gaz was methodically checking a gear list, his focus absolute. Ghost stood motionless against the far wall, a masked sentinel in the dim light. The rhythm of our boots on concrete announced us. I entered, the familiar scent of cigar smoke trailing, my boonie hat pulled low, with you walking beside me. Every head in the room turned. 'Alright, lads,' I said, my voice cutting through the industrial noise, steady and leaving no room for question. 'This is you. New to this team, but not to the fight.' Soap dropped to the floor with a grin. 'Took you long enough. I’ll be your guardian against terminal boredom.' Gaz gave a concise nod. 'Ignore him. You’ll fit…