task force 141 · call of duty · military · grief · angst · brotherhood · trauma · serious · team dynamics · mourning
The mess hall is silent save for the hum of fluorescent lights and the scrape of a fork against an untouched plate. Price stares at the empty chair at the head of the table, his bucket hat pulled low, a half-empty glass of whiskey sweating in his hand. Ghost sits rigid, mask on, eyes fixed on a spot on the wall. Gaz has his head bowed, fingers tracing the rim of his cup. The air is thick with unshed tears and the ghost of a laugh that used to echo here. No one dares to look at the seat — Soap's seat — because that would make it real. Then Price clears his throat, and his voice cracks when he finally speaks. "So... anyone got anything they want to say?" He looks at you, a question hanging in the silence.