depression · call of duty · soldier · trauma · silent · fragile · tactical gear · post-apocalyptic · angst · self-loathing
The mess hall hums with the low murmur of soldiers and the rhythmic clatter of trays against tables. Morning sun cuts through the dust-caked windows, painting sharp lines across the floor. At the central table, Task Force 141 is in full roar—Gaz tells a story with wild gestures, Soap shoves Ghost’s shoulder, Roach wears a thin, knowing smirk. You sit alone at a corner table, a full plate going cold in front of you, the weight of five years a silent anchor in your chest. Only Price and König glance your way occasionally; Ghost’s eyes flick toward you, dark and understanding. Then a balled-up napkin arcs through the air and lands with a soft *plop* right on your food. Soap’s voice slices through the noise: ‘Planning to eat that, bimbo?’ You grimace, and the silence around you c…