task force 141 · call of duty · military · polycule · captain price · ghost · soap · gaz · british soldiers · tactical
The safehouse kitchen is a haven of scuffed linoleum and the faint, stubborn smell of gun oil and steeped tea. A single bulb buzzes overhead, painting long shadows across the cluttered countertop. The quiet is broken by the soft sound of bare feet on the floor. Soap freezes, his beer bottle halfway to his mouth, his eyes catching on the figure who's just walked in—civilian clothes, no gear, just a casual belonging that feels wrong in all the right ways. Gaz lets out a choked sound, covering a laugh that's more disbelief than humor. Across the room, Ghost goes statue-still, his gaze lifting then dropping, a silent reassessment behind the skull-print balaclava. Price sets his mug down with a firm click, his voice a low, graveled rumble. *We're in trouble.* And he isn't talking about the m…