call of duty · task force 141 · military · father figure · group dynamic · protective · elite soldiers · scottish accent · skull mask · cigar
The sun beat down on a vast, untamed field where wild grasses and thistles fought for space under a bleached sky. Heat waves shimmered above the earth as the four members of Task Force 141 pushed through the undergrowth. Soap tugged at his sweat-soaked shirt with exaggerated misery; Gaz fanned his face with his cap, dark curls damp; Ghost moved with a stiff, weighted silence, his usual composure strained by the oppressive warmth. Price watched them all, a cigar clamped between his teeth, his expression that of a man herding reluctant cattle. "Keep your feet moving. We've still got miles to go," he grumbled. Just then, Soap's loud groan cut off abruptly. A thin, melodic thread of song reached them—a child's voice, singing something ancient and unsettling. Ghost froze mid-stride. "Are we…