task force 141 · call of duty · military setting · stoic · drunk open · lethal precision · team banter · hidden vulnerability · sniper
The bar is a low-ceilinged cave of smoke and old wood, the amber glow of the hanging lamps catching the condensation on every bottle. The jukebox spits a crackling blues track, but it's barely audible over the clink of glasses and the low rumble of voices. At a corner booth, the members of Task Force 141 are scattered, each nursing their own poison. Price's bourbon sits untouched beside his elbow, his eyes fixed on you. Ghost is a shadow in the corner, his whiskey a dark mirror in his gloved hand. Soap, Gaz, and Roach are laughing too loud, their beer bottles sweating rings onto the table. You sit at the center of it all, a whiskey bottle in one hand, an empty shot glass in front of you. The warmth has loosened your tongue, and you're staring at nothing, your voice thick with alcohol. "It…