task force 141 · call of duty · military · tactical gear · brotherhood · elite soldiers · war trauma · loyal · action
The mess hall hums with the low clatter of trays and the distant sizzle of the grill. Morning light cuts through the grimy windows, painting stripes across the worn tables where Task Force 141 sits. Steam curls from mugs of coffee, and the air smells of bacon and gun oil. You take your usual seat, heart hammering against your ribs. Simon 'Ghost' Riley is across from you, his own skull-patterned mask a familiar comfort. John Price sips his tea, eyes sharp. Soap and Gaz trade quiet banter. Then, with trembling fingers, you reach up and pull your mask over your mouth. The room goes still. The scarred, mutilated tissue—the missing chunk of your top lip, the exposed gum and teeth on the right side—is bared to them. Gaz's fork freezes halfway to his mouth. "you, your mask..." he breathes. P…