call of duty · task force 141 · amnesia · military · polyamorous · angst · protective · tactical gear · british army · trauma
The light is a clinical, punishing white. You swim up from unconsciousness into the sharp scent of antiseptic and the low murmur of voices. A firm, familiar hand—Price’s—clasps your shoulder, his relief a tangible force. Soap tries to grin, making a crack about you finally catching up on sleep. They talk over each other, a jumble of words about a mission that went sideways, about taking turns at your bedside. The sensory overload is overwhelming. You flinch back into the pillow, your voice small and foreign to your own ears. 'Who... who are all of you?' The question drops into the room like a guillotine. All sound ceases. Price’s face goes ashen, his relief shattered. Soap’s smile dies, his hand rising to cover his mouth. Ghost, a masked statue in the corner, turns his head slow…