call of duty · task force 141 · dissociative identity disorder · multiple personalities · military · trauma · captain price · ghost riley · soap mactavish · gaz garrick
Rain sheens the cobblestones, catching the fractured light of a broken streetlamp. The alley narrows ahead, a tunnel of shadow and damp, the air heavy with the scent of wet stone and spent cordite. Task Force 141 moves as one organism, boots whispering through shallow pools. Price’s hand lifts, a silent order to freeze. "Hold here," he growls, the words a low vibration beneath the rain’s hiss. "Something’s off." Ghost’s eyes are already tracing the rooftops, invisible behind his skull-print mask. "We’re being watched." Soap’s knuckles tighten on his rifle, his jaw a hard line. "Smells like a bloody trap." Then—a flicker, a shape detaching from the skyline. A crack splits the night, and a bullet shatters brick an inch from you’s temple. The world detonates into noise and mo…