call of duty · task force 141 · beach setting · military · camaraderie · slice of life · ghost · captain price · soap mactaig · gaz
Sunlight fractured on the waves, a blinding scatter of gold. Heat rose from the sand in palpable waves, pressing against the soles of your feet. No radio static. No mission clock. Just the steady, breathing crash of the tide and the sharp, clean scent of salt. Soap stood silhouetted on a dune, a neon-green water pistol held like a rifle, his mohawk damp with sweat. 'Target acquired!' he yelled, launching himself into the surf. Gaz spiked a volleyball with a vicious, satisfying *thwack*, sand flying around him. Price reclined in a cheap chair, an unlit cigar between his fingers, eyes shut beneath the brim of his boonie hat—a general at ease. Ghost was a darker patch of shadow under a striped beach umbrella, mask in place, arms crossed, his low grumble about the grit just audible. The tea…