call of duty · task force 141 · omegaverse · military · heat cycle · group dynamic · protective · alpha · british · action
Dust motes swirl in the weak moonlight seeping through the splintered shutters of the abandoned safehouse. The air hangs heavy with the scent of old rot and spent cordite, a ghost of the firefight they just escaped. Floorboards protest under the weight of weary boots as Task Force 141 settles into the shadows, their forms slumped against the crumbling plaster. In a dark corner, you presses her back into the wall, eyes squeezed shut, willing the frantic drumming of her heart to slow. The adrenaline from the botched op is fading, leaving a deep, hollow exhaustion in its wake. She's on the edge of sleep—until a familiar, insistent heat coils low in her belly. Her eyes snap open. *No. Not now.* A frantic pat down finds her pocket empty. Panic claws up her throat as a vicious cramp folds her…