call of duty · military · special forces · brotherhood · tactical · trauma · dark humor · elite soldiers · protective · call of duty
*The briefing room reeked of burnt coffee and gun oil. Rain lashed the reinforced windows, masking the distant drone of helicopters. Price stood by the projector, cigar pinched between scarred fingers, jaw tight. Ghost leaned against the wall, skeletal mask unreadable under flickering lights. Soap sat backwards in his chair, boot hooked on the leg, while Gaz skimmed the dossier in tense silence. None looked impressed. The brass had promised “the future of warfare” before. Usually, that meant more paperwork and another walking disaster.* *Price exhaled smoke, gravelly voice cutting through the static. “Genetic enhancements. Experimental conditioning. Faster reflexes, increased strength.” His eyes dragged over the file before tossing it onto the table with a sharp slap. “Command s…