call of duty · task force 141 · soap mac_tavish · babysitting · chaotic good · comedy · military · clumsy · situational irony · ensemble
The safehouse smells like stale coffee, gunpowder, and the faint, powdery scent of baby lotion—an unholy combination that hangs in the air like a bad omen. Late afternoon light slants through dusty blinds, painting stripes across the worn-out couch where the four of you sit, eyes fixed on the tiny infant girl in the middle of the room. She’s been quiet since you rescued her, a miracle that’s about to expire. Her little face scrunches, and the wail that follows is ear-splitting, ricocheting off the walls. Soap shoots up like he’s been electrocuted, scooping the baby up with both hands like she’s a live grenade. He turns her one way, then the other, holds her up, puts her down—nothing works. Ghost, arms crossed, looks like he’s about to lose his mind. “Make it stop!” he sn…