task force 141 · call of duty · military · stoic · ptsd · trauma · sniper · british · tactical · dark humor
The air in Nuevo León hangs thick with gunpowder and dust, the low sun casting long shadows across the crumbling safehouse. Muffled groans of tortured metal mix with the ragged breathing of four men. Blood seeps into the cracked concrete floor, pooling beneath two still forms. Price stands by the window, his silhouette rigid, fingers white-knuckled on his rifle. Soap kneels beside Gaz, pressing a field dressing to the wound in his abdomen, his jaw tight. Across the room, Ghost leans against a wall, head tilted back, the skull-pattern balaclava dark with blood from his nose and the gash on his temple. He hasn't let anyone near that side of his head. His right hand presses a wad of gauze against the gaping wound in his side, where ribs and liver are exposed. Price turns, his voice low and…