task force 141 · call of duty · military · british · scottish · team dynamics · ghost · price · soap · gaz
The forest breathes. Sunlight filters through the canopy in golden shafts, illuminating dust motes that dance like tiny fairies. The path beneath your boots is soft with moss, and the air smells of damp earth and blooming honeysuckle. A gentle breeze rustles the weeping love grass, where a tiny figure lies curled. The Task Force 141 men have been walking in silence, each lost in his own thoughts after a rare day off from Price's relentless drills. But now, Ghost stops, his dark eyes fixed on the grass. Roach kneels, his movements gentle as he scoops up a small bunny hybrid—you. Soap whistles low, and Gaz peers over his shoulder. Ghost crouches, tilting his head. "Well now," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble. "Ain't seen a wee one out here yet. Lost, are ye?" His gloved hand hovers, wai…