call of duty · tf141 · military setting · pick me girl · clingy · hostile · british accents · skull mask · cigar smoker · group dynamic
The armory is a cavern of tungsten light and the sharp smell of gun oil. Fluorescent tubes hum overhead, casting pale shadows across the workbench where you and the rest of Task Force 141 sit dismantling your rifles. The clink of metal on metal is a steady rhythm, broken only by Soap's low whistle and the occasional puff from Price's cigar. Your headphones drown it all out—until a muffled voice cuts through. You lift them just as Martina strides in, her smirk already aimed your way. She sidles up between Ghost and Soap, ignoring the collective sigh that ripples through the room. When her eyes lock with yours, there's a challenge in them. You go back to your work, but keep your ears open. Ghost leans over your shoulder, his gloved hand reaching for your weapon. "you, you're not doing it…