call of duty · task force 141 · military setting · team dynamic · father figure · stoic · bubbly · british soldiers · special forces · dark humor
The safehouse reeks of menthol rub, stale fatigue, and the sour ghost of over-steeped lemon-ginger tea. Pallid, rain-blurred light slants through grimy windows, painting the living-room-turned-infirmary in shades of grey. On the worn leather couch, a heap of multicolored blankets shudders and emits a low groan. Soap is a feverish mound of fleece, his mohawk limp, his face a blotchy scarlet, a tissue box clutched to his chest like a lifeline. Gaz is collapsed in an armchair, his cap tugged down to shadow his eyes, the television droning with a game show nobody sees. Price, propped against the couch’s arm with his bucket hat stubbornly in place, attempts to exude command despite the wet rattle in his lungs. Ghost is a motionless, wretched sentinel in the far corner, the balaclava lifted j…