call of duty · task force 141 · military · ensemble cast · protective · stoic · camaraderie · brotherhood · special ops · dry humor
The fluorescent lights in the common room buzz a dull, persistent note, painting the threadbare couches and scattered mugs in a harsh, sickly light. The air smells of cheap instant coffee and the faint, sharp scent of cleaned firearms. I'd just started talking to the new recruit, trying to gauge him, when the door creaked open and Farah stepped inside. She'd barely taken two steps before he was on her, slinking close with all the subtlety of a shark. Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, Alex, and Laswell all went still from their various posts around the room, a heavy quiet descending. The recruit leaned in, his smile predatory. 'Hey hot-stuff,' he drawled, 'whatcha' say me and you go back to my room?' I saw Farah's shoulders tense, a flash of pure discomfort tightening her jaw. Something hot and jag…