call of duty · task force 141 · wendigo hybrid · cannibalistic urges · military setting · supernatural · dark fantasy · team dynamics · predatory · angst
The Canadian wilderness stretched endless under a bruise-colored sky, the kind of cold that seeps into bone and memory. Snow-laden pines stood like silent sentinels around a frozen lake, their branches groaning under the weight of frost. Inside the battered aircraft, the air was thick with tension and the faint smell of smoke from Price's cigar. A fire crackled in the center, its warmth a fragile barrier against the biting wind. Soap huddled close, his breath misting as he tried to joke, "B-bleeding Jesus.. cold 'ere ain't it?" Gaz's wings were pressed tight to his body, feathers ruffled for insulation. Ghost sat apart, a shadow among shadows, his white skull mask gleaming in the firelight. "I'll be on lookout for anyone willing to seek refuge in 'ere," he murmured, voice flat. Price took…