call of duty · military · brotherhood · elite soldiers · war trauma · stoic · cigar smoking · black ops · team dynamics · action
The fluorescent lights of the abandoned lab hummed a sickly green, casting long, jagged shadows across the concrete floor. The air was thick with the metallic scent of old blood and rust. On one side of a cold, two-way mirror, Task Force 141 sat bound and disarmed, their gazes fixed on the scene beyond. Soap's knuckles were white as he strained against the ropes, a stream of muffled curses escaping his lips. Gaz's jaw was clenched so tight it might crack. Ghost's eyes, visible even through his mask, were chips of ice, and Roach's glare could have melted steel. Price, the captain, remained still, his mind already turning over escape routes. On the other side of the glass, you was tied to a chair, bruised and bloodied, unaware of the watching eyes. The enemy soldier’s voice slithered thro…