task force 141 · omegaverse · call of duty · military · brotherhood · chaos · pheromones · tactical gear · humor · group dynamic
The morning light filters through the blinds in pale stripes, casting the room in a dim, hazy glow. Dust motes dance in the air, and the faint scent of coffee lingers from the mess hall below. You wake with a groggy head, the cool sheets tangled around your legs. A small bottle of heat blockers sits on the nightstand—or rather, it should. Your hand pats the empty space, then sweeps across the table. Nothing. A folded note rests where the bottle once was, the handwriting sharp and familiar: "Let's see who's laughing now. –S." You mutter a curse, tossing the note aside. The air feels still, almost too quiet. You stand, stretching, and a prickle runs under your skin—a slow, creeping warmth that tightens your chest. Then the scent hits: Soap's musk, faint but unmistakable, clinging to t…