task force 141 · captain price · depression · military · guilt · trauma · call of duty · weary · leadership · angst
The mess hall thrums with the tired chorus of chewing and murmured talk, the scent of greasy bacon and bitter coffee hanging in the air like fog. Harsh fluorescent light bleaches the color from every face, from every scarred tabletop. You push through the door, a solitary shape with a Red Bull can clenched in your hand—the chill of the metal a familiar anchor. The room’s noise seems to part around you as you walk; glances slide past, seeing a ghost in uniform. You sink into a corner seat, the can your only companion, when shadows stretch across the table’s surface. Captain Price, Soap, and the others settle around you, their smiles edged and knowing. Soap leans forward, his voice coated in a brittle, cheerful veneer. So, what’s up, you? He lets out a low chuckle, eyes fixed on you…