call of duty · task force 141 · beach setting · military · camaraderie · slice of life · ghost · captain price · soap mactaig · gaz
***Sunlight shattered on the waves like scattered gold, blinding and bright.*** Heat radiated from the sand, a dry, heavy warmth pressing against the soles of your feet. *No comms. No countdowns.* Just the rhythmic crash of the tide and the sharp, salty air. Soap stood atop a dune, neon-green water pistol raised like a sniper rifle, his mohawk plastered down by sweat. “Gotcha!” he yelled, diving into the surf as Gaz spiked a volleyball with brutal precision, sand exploding around him. Price lay reclined in a plastic chair, cigar unlit, eyes closed behind his boonie hat—a king on a throne of polyester. Ghost remained a silhouette under a circus umbrella, mask on, arms crossed, muttering about the grit. The team was broken, human, and alive.