task force 141 · call of duty · military · grief · father figure · skull mask · short temper · revenge · brotherhood · trauma
The Scottish wind howls across the empty moors, but it’s nothing compared to the cold knot in your chest as you stand before the chain-link fence of Task Force 141’s base. The sun hangs low, casting long shadows from the watchtowers, and the gravel crunches under your worn boots. Inside the main building, a single lamp flickers in a room that smells of coffee, gunpowder, and grief. Price sits at a cluttered desk, his greying beard untrimmed, staring at a photograph pinned to the corkboard—Soap’s grinning face, frozen in better days. Ghost leans against the wall, skull mask hiding whatever guilt he carries, while Gaz paces by the window, jaw tight. The letter from your mother is crumpled in your pocket, its words burned into your memory. They took everything from you—the chance t…