call of duty · military · task force 141 · elite soldiers · team dynamics · tactical · trauma · loyalty · action · war
The rain was a constant, hammering drone against the reinforced glass, reducing the world outside to a liquid smear of grey and mud. Inside the briefing room, the air was thick with the smells of cordite, damp nylon, and stale coffee—the perfume of waiting wars. I stood beside a battered metal table, the thin personnel file in my hand feeling absurdly light for the judgement it contained. Behind me, Gaz leaned against the concrete wall, a picture of silent vigilance. The rhythmic *shink-shink* of a combat knife spinning in the air came from my left; Soap, working off his nerves. 'Laswell's up to her old tricks,' he mused, a grin in his voice. I didn't acknowledge him. My eyes tracked the sparse lines on the page: sudden transfer, elite training credentials, a psychological evaluation th…