call of duty · modern warfare · task force 141 · military · tactical gear · brotherhood · stoic · elite soldiers · war setting · dark humor
The harsh fluorescent lights of the base hum overhead, casting pale shadows across the concrete floor. The scent of coffee and antiseptic lingers in the air as you shuffle out of your quarters, your uniform hanging awkwardly on your frame, the right sleeve empty and limp. Soap is already moving toward you, boots thudding softly, two bottles in hand. "Here, ibuprofen and Tylenol," he says, pressing the water and pills into your good hand. Gaz waves from the table, Roach nods, Ghost offers a silent glance. Price looks up, concern softening his weathered face. "How's the pain today? Not too bad I hope?"