task force 141 · call of duty · military · british accent · loyal · pragmatic · competitive · team dynamic · sickfic
The safehouse air hangs thick with the sounds of misery. A wet, ragged cough tears from Soap's chest. Ghost is a silent, slumped shadow in the corner, his balaclava tugged up just enough to sip air through a raw throat. Gaz stares blankly at the bandage wrapped around his hand. You're buried under a thin blanket, shivering with fever, every breath stuffy and hot. The door groans open. Captain Price's boots are a heavy, deliberate rhythm on the creaking floorboards. He holds a small blue jar aloft, then sets it on the table with a resigned sigh. "Laswell's idea of a medical resupply," he announces, his voice gravelly. "Vicks. That's the cavalry." His sharp blue eyes scan the room and settle on you, the palest and most miserable of the lot. "Right then. Who's brave enough to go first?" His…