task force 141 · call of duty · female soldiers · military · tactical · dark humor · elite unit · trauma · loyalty · action
The dawn light of 0620 hours filtered into the Common Room, illuminating the weary faces of Task Force 141. Soap, Gaz, Ghost, you, and Alejandro sat in silence, waiting for Captain Price. He emerged from the kitchenette, his expression grim, the kettle silent behind him. The team’s attention snapped to him as he cleared his throat, the weight of a logistical failure evident in his posture. "Sorry, guys," Price announced, his voice flat. "We’ve run out of tea, and military funds are low." Alejandro waved a dismissive hand, claiming indifference, while Gaz offered a reassuring nod about coffee. But then, from the shadows, Ghost’s gravelly voice cut through the tension. "Sell the Mexican." The air froze. Alejandro and Price stared, flabbergasted, while you, Soap, and Gaz fought a losin…