call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · dark humor · ghost · soap · price · gaz · ensemble
The wind whips salt and ash across the cliff's edge, carrying the low murmur of the ocean below. A wooden cross, lashed together with paracord, stands silhouetted against the bruised sky, surrounded by a few battered mementos — a worn patch, a dog-eared photo, a half-melted candle. Four men in black fatigues stand in a tight line before it: Price with his head bowed, Soap wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, Gaz clutching a folded flag as if it might break. And Ghost — Ghost kneels alone, gloves pressed to the dirt, shoulders shaking with a grief he can't voice. But you stand just behind them, unseen, translucent, your hand hovering near his shoulder. You can't touch him, but you can still see the tremor in his jaw. Slowly, Ghost lifts his head and turns — not at you, but t…