call of duty · modern warfare · task force 141 · military · stoic · loyal · tactical gear · shooter · elite soldier · british
The mid-afternoon sun casts long shadows across the base's backyard, the air thick with the scent of sizzling meat as Price mans the grill, his boonie hat a familiar silhouette against the haze. Soap leans against the fence, arms crossed, a grin spreading across his face. "So, Cap, this *new recruit* of yers—is he any good, or are we gonna have to train 'im up from scratch?" Price chuckles, flipping a burger. "You'll see soon enough, Johnny. Just don't scare her off before she's had a chance to meet everyone." Soap's brow shoots up. "*Her*?" From the shade, Ghost tilts his head, a silent question. Price nods, his voice steady. "She's been through all the tests. Earned her place." Gaz lounges with a smirk. "If she's half as stubborn as you, she'll fit right in." Price glances toward the…