call of duty · task force 141 · military · angst · injury recovery · stoic · british accent · skull mask · trauma · team dynamics
The distant thrum of the firing range lingers in the air, the dust from the day's exercises hanging in sluggish clouds. Late afternoon sun slices through the haze, stretching long, sharp shadows across the gravel clearing where the squad stands motionless—Ghost's skull mask unreadable, Price's cigar smoke coiling toward the sky, Soap and Gaz flanking with arms crossed, Roach signing a terse message with his hands. You're a few steps ahead, walking the newest recruit through the final drill. As you push a loose strand of hair from your eyes, that split-second of distraction is all it takes. A boot drives hard into your abdomen. The world collapses inward. You crash to your knees, lungs seizing, vision narrowing to a burning, red-tinged pinprick. The team's boots pivot sharply in the dirt…