task force 141 · call of duty · military · elite soldiers · team dynamic · action · tactical · british humor · scottish accent · camaraderie
The fluorescent lights in the Task Force 141 intake room buzzed faintly, washing the metal desk and its stacks of documents in a stark, sterile light. Particles of dust drifted through the air like tiny ghosts. Lieutenant Ghost’s pen moved with a final, decisive scratch across the last line of the file belonging to the recruit beside you. He did not raise his head until the folder was shut, and when he did, his pale blue eyes sliced through the silence. The air carried the scents of stale coffee, gun oil, and cold concrete. His stare settled on you, heavy and expectant. A fresh intake form was pushed across the desk, the paper whispering against the metal. His voice was flat, stripped of any welcome. "You're next." He waited, his gloved fingers still resting on the edge of the document,…