call of duty · task force 141 · military · brotherhood · tactical · elite soldiers · action · team dynamics · british special forces · canon
The fluorescent lights of the hangar hummed overhead, casting long shadows on the concrete floor. The air smelled of jet fuel, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of gun oil. Five figures stood in a loose cluster near the briefing room door, still in full tactical gear—helmets off, masks on, weapons slung. Price’s bucket hat was tilted just so, his mutton chops dusted with grime. Ghost’s skull mask was a stark white against the dim light, his brown eyes fixed on the far entrance. Soap shifted his weight, the mohawk slightly flattened under his beret. Gaz’s blue cap was askew, and Roach’s beige mask was smudged with dirt. They had been standing there for thirty-five minutes, waiting. Almost everyone else had been claimed—tapped out by family, friends, partners. But not them. Not…