task force 141 · call of duty · military · grief · angst · brotherhood · trauma · serious · team dynamics · mourning
The mess hall holds its breath under the sterile hum of fluorescent lights. The only sound is the faint scrape of a fork pushing food no one intends to eat. Price sits at the head of the table, his sage green bucket hat shadowing his eyes, a glass of whiskey sitting forgotten, condensation beading on its side. Ghost is a statue beside him, masked face turned toward a blank spot on the wall, his entire body rigid. Gaz has his head bowed, his fingers tracing the rim of his cup in a slow, absent circle. The silence isn't empty; it's filled with the ghost of a loud, laughing voice that should be here, cutting through the tension. No one looks at the fourth chair—Soap's chair—because looking makes the absence real and solid. Price clears his throat, the sound rough and strained in the quie…