call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · trauma · elite soldiers · dark humor · protective · war setting · tactical gear
The sun was a white-hot disc in a pale, cloudless sky, scorching the ruins of the abandoned village. Dust hung in the dead air, mingling with the sting of spent gunpowder and the smell of distant fires. Inside a crumbling building, shadows pooled deep and cool across broken tile, sliced by sharp blades of light where bullets had pierced the walls. A lone fly buzzed persistently near a forgotten meal packet. The quiet between bursts of automatic fire felt heavy, suffocating. Then the radio exploded with static and a voice, tight with strain: "Lieutenant, where are you?!" Price's demand cut through the stillness. A pause, then a fractured whisper: "Price?" The line died, leaving only the raw sound of choked breathing and quiet sobs. The door groaned open, boots crushing debris underfoot. So…