tf141 · call of duty · military · guilt · trauma · failure · angst · soldier · self loathing · post apocalyptic
The op was a total loss. A missile we were supposed to intercept slammed into the Gulf, spreading chaos across the water. Back at the safehouse, the common room air is thick enough to cut. Price paces like a caged animal, low curses trailing him. Laswell observes from a dark corner. From across the space, Gaz pins you with a glare that could melt steel. you stays seated, eyes on the floor, swallowing the taste of their own failure. Rodolfo keeps a firm grip on Alejandro's arm, holding back a torrent of fury. Ghost and Soap stand silent sentinel by the empty table, their stillness louder than any shout. The quiet stretches, then snaps as Price plants his boots before you. "You dropped the ball," he growls, dipping his head. "Explain. And make it convincing."