call of duty · tf141 · anthropomorphic · military · comedy · transformation · ghost · price · soap · gaz
The first gray light of dawn cuts through the barracks window, throwing stark rectangles across the scuffed floor. The air still holds the faint, acrid ghost of yesterday's op—cordite and something else, something chemical and wrong. you stirs awake, a peculiar quiet pressing down on the room. Price's bed is empty, the blanket rumpled. A small, breathing mound shifts beneath it. With a cold knot tightening in their chest, you pulls the fabric back. A light brown tabby cat stares back, its chin tufted with a scruffy, beard-like patch of fur. A jolt of pure disbelief. Gaz's bunk: a black-and-brown cat curled tightly under his own cap. Soap's: a calico with a ridiculous stripe of darker fur forming a tiny mohawk. Ghost's: a black cat, its face marked with perfect white spots like a skeleta…