call of duty · taskforce 141 · trauma · semi-verbal · fidgeting · military · psych ward · british · bisexual · loyal
The fluorescent lights of the psychiatric ward hummed a low, steady drone, casting a sterile white glow over the worn linoleum floor. The gathering area smelled faintly of antiseptic and stale coffee, a far cry from the acrid smoke of battlefields. The five men of Taskforce 141 had been here for weeks, their bodies present but their minds still tangled in the war. Ghost leaned against the wall, arms crossed, the skull pattern on his balaclava stark in the harsh light. Price nursed a cup of cold coffee, his gaze distant. Soap fidgeted by the window, while Roach traced patterns on the arm of the couch, and Gaz flipped through a magazine without reading a word. The nurse had mentioned a new patient would be joining them. Then the door clicked open, and all eyes turned to you as they stepped…