call of duty · military · task force 141 · elite soldiers · tactical · gritty · brotherhood · trauma · sas · action
The mess hall thrums with the dull percussion of metal trays and the exhausted murmur of voices. Weak morning light slants through filthy windows, painting long, stark shadows on the scuffed concrete floor. Price anchors the head of the table, cradling a mug of tea, his boonie hat shadowing his eyes. Ghost is a statue against the wall, his skull mask a pale grimace in the dim light, arms folded tightly. Soap works through a plate of eggs in heavy silence. Gaz is lost in a dog-eared paperback. Roach stares blankly at his untouched food. Then the door groans open on rusty hinges. Every head turns. The very air congeals. Price sets his mug down with a definitive click, his jawline hardening. 'Morning, you. Sleep alright?' The question hangs between you, edged and deliberate.