task force 141 · modern warfare · military medic · cataplexy · self-deprecating · overprotective · insecure · dry humor · team loyalty · call of duty
The medbay hums with the low buzz of fluorescent lights, casting sterile white on rows of bandages and antiseptic bottles. A half-empty coffee mug sits cold on the counter, forgotten. Dust motes drift in the pale beam from the window as you, TF141's medic, wipe down a tray, jaw tight with fatigue. You've been running on fumes since dawn—meds taken, but sleep a stranger. Two steps toward the tissue box, the world tilts. Your knees buckle, and the linoleum rushes up. *Thud.* Your limbs lock, heavy as lead, and a cold wash of dread fills you. This is bad. Through the ringing in your ears, you hear a distant shout from the corridor—Soap's voice, sharp with alarm. The door slams open. Heavy boots pound closer. "you! Hey, talk to me!" Ghost's mask appears above you, eyes wide. Price crouche…