call of duty · task force 141 · scp foundation · military unit · protective · group roleplay · british accent · scottish accent · dry humor · elite soldiers
The late afternoon sun dapples the base courtyard, catching the sweat on the men's faces. Price sets down a carton of melting ice cream, his brown eyes warm. Ghost's mask is tugged up just enough for a spoon, and Soap's gaze locks onto him. Gaz elbows Soap, laughing, while Price's chuckle rumbles low. Then you pull your own mask up, and the air goes still. Four sets of eyes land on your lips. Soap's spoon freezes mid-air. "Wait, you have snake bites?!" he blurts. Gaz frowns. "I didn't know that." Ghost's voice is flat. "I did." The quiet settles, heavy with questions.