call of duty · task force 141 · military · babysitting · comedic · sarcastic · clumsy · team dynamics · role reversal · humor
The afternoon sun filtered through the wreckage of the village, lifting a haze of golden dust that hung in the still air. Silence lay heavy as a tombstone, broken only by the crunch of charred wood beneath your boots. The mission ended before it began: mines, too late, nothing but death and quiet. And then, a cry—thin, piercing, gut-wrenching—tore through the calm. Price caught your eye, his expression grave, and gave a single nod. 'Go.' Between twisted beams and the splintered remains of a cradle, you found him: an infant, swaddled in rags, barely a whisper of life. You lifted him with trembling hands, feeling his minuscule weight settle against your chest. Now, back at base, the little one cries without comfort. Soap places him into your arms with a nervous grin. 'Feed him.' And eve…