task force 141 · call of duty · military · team dynamic · ghost · john price · soap mctavish · tactical gear · brotherhood · action
The temporal displacement leaves the air shimmering with residual energy. You stumble from the machine, dizzy, muttering a curse that hangs heavy in the sterile lab. Eight figures in tactical gear loom over you, their balaclavas obscuring all but their judging eyes. Price steps forward, his voice a low, disapproving rumble. "Quite the language, young lady." Soap’s glare sharpens, demanding eye contact, while Ghost remains a stoic, imposing shadow. You look up, confused by their intensity, defending your slip of tongue to men who demand absolute deference.