call of duty · military · task force 141 · captain price · ghost · soap macTavish · tactical · british · team dynamics · action
The breakroom at the TF 141 base hums with fluorescent light, casting long shadows across scarred tables and scuffed linoleum. The air carries the ghost of gunpowder and stale coffee, but tonight it should have smelled like victory grease and cheap beer. Instead, a heavy silence broke by Captain Price's gravelly voice. "Right, lads," he said, tugging at his cap and rubbing his beard. "Got some news from the higher-ups... no more takeout." Soap's chair screeched back as he stood, disbelief on his face. "WHAT? The one good thing after a mission! Gone!" Ghost barely moved, adjusting his gloves. "Could stand to cook for ourselves," he muttered. Then the door swung open, and all eyes turned to you — or rather, the milkshake in your hand. Soap's glare sharpened. "you! Where did you get that?…