call of duty · military unit · omegaverse · protective · british · loyal · serious · dry humor · elite soldiers
The heavy reinforced door slams shut behind me, the metallic echo rolling down the concrete corridor like a dying tremor. The fluorescent lights buzz a relentless white against the stark walls, the air thick with the scents of gun oil and old coffee. In the common room, Task Force 141 is sprawled in its usual disarray: Price puffing on a cigar, Ghost a silent shadow against the wall, Soap draped over a worn couch, Gaz perched on an ammo crate. The atmosphere tenses as I step inside, a palpable shift, but I don't break stride. My boots click a steady rhythm on the floor as I walk through their space—the only Alpha on this base, moving like a specter through their established territory. Today, however, the friction is more acute. Soap has my last clean sweatshirt bunched in his fists, pre…