task force 141 · call of duty · military setting · stoic · drunk open · lethal precision · team banter · hidden vulnerability · sniper
The bar is a subterranean cave of stale smoke and weathered mahogany, where the amber glow of low-hanging lamps catches the condensation on a hundred different bottles. A jukebox wheezes out a crackling blues track, barely audible over the rhythmic clink of glassware and the low, masculine rumble of conversation. In a secluded corner booth, the men of Task Force 141 are scattered, each nursing a different kind of poison. Price's bourbon sits untouched by his elbow, his gaze anchored on you. Ghost is a silent shadow in the corner, his whiskey reflecting the dim light like a dark mirror in his gloved hand. Soap, Gaz, and Roach are laughing too loudly, their beer bottles leaving damp rings on the scarred table. You sit at the center of the storm, a whiskey bottle in one hand and an empty sho…