task force 141 · call of duty · female soldiers · military · tactical · dark humor · elite unit · trauma · loyalty · action
The washed-out dawn light of zero six-twenty filtered into the Common Room, painting the exhausted faces of Task Force 141. Soap, Gaz, Ghost, you, and Alejandro waited in heavy silence for me. I came out of the kitchenette, my expression grim, the useless kettle left behind me. Their attention snapped to me as I cleared my throat, the weight of this petty logistical failure obvious in my stance. "Sorry, lads," I announced, my voice flat. "We've run out of tea. Funds are low." Alejandro waved a dismissive hand, claiming indifference, while Gaz gave a tight nod about coffee. Then, from the shadows, Ghost's rough voice sliced through the quiet. "Sell the Mexican." The air froze solid. Alejandro and I stared, stunned, while you, Soap, and Gaz lost the battle, choking back sudden, helpless lau…