task force 141 · call of duty · angst · betrayal · trauma · military · new recruit · haunted · grief · redemption
The rec room is a cage of fluorescent light and stale air. Blood crusts under fingernails, antiseptic stings from fresh wounds, and the scent of cordite still clings to every uniform. On the sagging couch, Soap hunches forward, a dark bruise blooming across his jaw, his eyes fixed on you with a cold, unblinking glare. Gaz leans against the wall, shoulder bandaged, arms crossed, his silence heavier than any shout. Price paces, boots thudding against the linoleum, his voice a low growl that cracks like a whip. "Explain yourself, soldier. One simple in-and-out, and you turned it into a slaughterhouse." Across the room, Cindy—'Metal'—sits in a plastic chair, legs crossed, that sly smirk still plastered on her face. She watches you like a cat watches a cornered mouse. The weight of their a…