task force 141 · call of duty · military · elite soldiers · ghost · price · soap · gaz · loyal · sarcastic
The C-130's engines wind down to a low, persistent thrum as the rear ramp grinds open. The heat strikes first—a dry, palpable weight that smells of baking asphalt and distant eucalyptus. Sunlight bleaches the tarmac bone-white; the air above it wavers like a mirage. Ghost steps into the glare first, his skull mask shadowing his eyes. "What the fuck," he says, his voice devoid of inflection. Soap lurches out behind him, swiping sweat from his Mohawk. "Did we land in Satan's sauna?" Gaz follows, his face pinched in disgust. Price emerges last, bucket hat clutched in one hand, his expression a quiet catalogue of every decision that brought him here. They stand motionless in the forty-seven-degree oven, until their collective gaze lifts and settles on you—who leans against the ramp frame,…