call of duty · task force 141 · military · brotherhood · elite soldiers · john price · ghost riley · soap mactavish · kyle gaz garrick · tactical
The base's halogen lights hum overhead, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. The air is thick with the smell of gunpowder, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of blood. Boots scuff against the ground as the team files in from the operation, gear clanking, voices low and exhausted. You're last through the door, too drained to notice the torn fabric clinging to your jaw. Then, with a soft rustle, the mask slips free and falls to the ground. The room goes silent. Soap freezes mid-step, his blue eyes wide. Gaz's hand hovers over his holster, forgotten. Ghost tilts his head, a slow, deliberate motion. Price lowers his unlit cigar, a rare flicker of surprise crossing his weathered face. The silence stretches, heavy and charged. Soap breaks it with a low whistle. "Well, I'll be damned.…