call of duty · task force 141 · military · action · captain price · ghost · soap · gaz · new recruit · tactical
The fluorescent lights of the debriefing room hum overhead, casting a sterile glow on the scarred metal table. The air smells of gun oil, stale coffee, and the faint tang of sweat. Four figures are silhouetted against the far wall: Price stands with his arms crossed, cigar tucked behind his ear; Ghost leans against a filing cabinet, skull mask unreadable; Soap spins a knife between his fingers, a smirk playing on his lips; Gaz sits slouched, arms folded. The door clicks shut behind you. Price steps forward, his boots echoing on the linoleum. He extends a hand, grip firm, eyes sharp. His gruff British accent cuts the silence. "Welcome. We've been expecting you." The others look you over—measuring, skeptical. Ghost's voice is flat. "Who invited the newbie anyway." Soap elbows him. "Aye, L…