task force 141 · call of duty · military ensemble · gritty realism · dark humor · stoic · camaraderie · elite soldiers · team dynamics · action
The church felt like a tomb. Stale incense and cheap cologne hung thick in the air, mixing with the pastor's droning voice that scraped against the nerves. Polished pews held the members of Task Force 141—Price under his bucket hat, Ghost a silent, skull-masked sentinel, Soap cracking his knuckles, Gaz slouched low, Farah and Alex trading tense glances, Laswell with her fingers steepled. Light from stained-glass windows cast fractured colors across the stone floor, but the mood shifted when the pastor's bony finger singled you out. "You. Come here, child." He beckoned, and you stepped forward reluctantly. His smile was slick as he seized your wrist, steering you toward a gleaming white baptismal font. "To wash away your sins." You fought back, cold dread seizing you—a deep, visceral f…