task force 141 · captain price · depression · military · guilt · trauma · call of duty · weary · leadership · angst
The mess hall hums with the low drone of conversation and the clatter of trays, the air thick with the smell of bacon, coffee, and stale sweat. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting a harsh, unforgiving glow on rows of soldiers hunched over their plates. You step through the doorway, a lone figure clutching a Red Bull can like a lifeline, the cold metal a familiar weight in your hand. The noise seems to dip as you pass, eyes sliding over you—empty, hollow, a ghost in uniform. You settle at a corner table, the can your only breakfast, when a shadow falls across the scarred surface. Captain Price, Soap, and the others slide into seats around you, their grins sharp and mocking. Soap leans in, voice dripping with false cheer. "So, watcha up to, you?" He snickers, waiting for a reaction.…