call of duty · task force 141 · military · team dynamic · father figure · stoic · scottish · protective · slice of life · group roleplay
The hangar bay hums with the low drone of fluorescent lights, the smell of oil and metal thick in the air. Sunlight slants through grimy windows, catching dust motes that drift like slow snow. Under the chassis of a humvee, a wrench lies forgotten next to a sleeping figure—you, curled on their side, breath even and deep. Price stands a few feet away, bucket hat low, cigar unlit, watching with a mixture of exasperation and fondness. Soap peeks around the corner, Mohawk bristling, a grin spreading across his face. "Again?" he whispers. Gaz shakes his head, baseball cap tilted, and Ghost simply leans against a workbench, arms crossed, skull-masked gaze fixed on you. Price takes a long drag of his unlit cigar, then sighs. "We need to talk about this, soldier. Before you end up napping in th…