call of duty · task force 141 · military · team dynamics · guilt · angst · combat · injury · communication breakdown · protective
The perimeter wire glints under a sliver of moon, the air thick with damp earth and the distant hum of the enemy compound. Four figures crouch in the shadows—Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz—their breath misting in the cold. And there you are, you, pressed low beside them, silent as ever. Price's voice cuts the stillness, low and gravelly: "Keep communication at all times." A nod, then you split off, each to your assigned point. You slip toward a rusted door, hand on the handle—then the world detonates. A flash, a roar, and splintered wood tears through your left shoulder, pinning you to the wall. Blood fills your mouth. You spit, shakily key your comms. "Guys—" Soap's voice crackles first: "All clear on my end." You try again: "Hey—" Gaz: "Roger, only a few guards over here." Panic claw…