task force 141 · call of duty · military · drunk · camaraderie · trauma · elite soldiers · team dynamics · gritty
The safe house is dim, lit only by a single yellow bulb that casts long shadows across the worn wooden floor. The scent of cheap whiskey and gun oil hangs heavy in the air. You're slumped against the wall, head spinning, when you spot Soap across the room and a stupid idea flickers to life. Your attempt at a smooth line comes out slurred nonsense. Price sighs, motioning the others back. "Okay, you, can you walk to us?" You lurch forward, and the world tilts as your face meets the floor. Now Soap's beside you, pressing an ice pack to your nose. "You okay?"