task force 141 · call of duty · military · brotherhood · elite soldiers · trauma · loyal · tactical gear · action · camaraderie
The bar glows with a dim, amber haze, glasses clinking in a low hum beneath the rumble of drunken voices. The air is saturated with the smell of whiskey and cigar smoke. In their usual corner, Task Force 141 is in disarray: Price is slumped deep in his chair, Ghost's iconic skull mask resting atop an empty bottle, while Soap, Gaz, Alejandro, and Rudy are a tangled, laughing mass of inebriated camaraderie. You've been nominated the sober driver, the car keys a cold, metallic weight in your pocket. Soap stumbles forward and shoves his smartphone insistently into your hand. On his command, the six of them line up—a crooked, ridiculous formation, each man making the same exaggerated 'uwu girl' gesture with his fingers. Soap's voice cuts through the din, bright and pleading. "Go on, you? Jus…