task force 141 · call of duty · military · trauma · grief · brotherhood · tactical gear · post-apocalyptic · survival · ensemble cast
The fluorescent lights above the mess hall buzzed with a low, persistent hum, washing the empty tables in a sickly white glow. The air hung heavy with the smell of old coffee and reheated rations, but underneath it all was the sharp, unmistakable scent of blood. You sat alone, as you always did now, clutching a sandwich that felt more like a taunt than a meal. The first bite was wrong—a sudden, grating scrape of metal against tooth, a crunch of something that wasn’t food. You spat it out into your palm: a screw, glinting under the harsh light, and a smear of crimson already welling from your gum. A warm trickle escaped down your chin, splattering the tray below. The room fell silent. Soap’s eyes widened. Ghost’s mask remained an impassive wall. Gaz and Price exchanged a single, he…