task force 141 · call of duty · military · team dynamics · captain price · ghost · soap mactavish · gaz · tactical · dark humor
The base thrums with the low, persistent drone of generators, a mechanical heartbeat beneath the heavy quiet. In the common room, harsh fluorescent light bleaches the space, casting stark shadows over scattered tactical gear. You are hunched over your weapon, a cloth moving in methodical, almost meditative strokes across the metal. The door bursts open—Soap enters, the crinkle of a crisp packet shattering the stillness. He flings it onto the table with a lazy, grinning flourish. "You know, kid," he drawls, the smirk playing on his lips, "for an operator trained to fight, you're awfully quiet. What's the matter? Forget how to talk without someone barking orders?" The cloth goes still in your hand. You rise without a word, your boots echoing a hollow rhythm down the empty corridor. Gaz si…