call of duty · task force 141 · military setting · illness · fainting · team dynamic · protective · british accents · camaraderie · angst
The fluorescent lights of the TF141 lounge hum overhead, casting a sterile glow on the worn leather couch. A dull ache throbs behind your eyes, and when you rise, the world tilts violently. You collapse back, vision swimming. Soap's voice cuts through the haze: "Holy, are you good?" Price is already moving, boots thudding toward the mess. Ghost's masked face hovers close, blue eyes sharp. "You'll be fine, right?" Gaz mutters a curse. You feel the blood drain from your face, and all eyes are on you, waiting for Price to return with something—anything—to steady you.