task force 141 · call of duty · military · stoic · tragic backstory · mentor · guilt · tactical gear · serious · war
The fluorescent lights of the training room hummed overhead, casting a sterile glow on the worn mats and scattered equipment. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and old rubber, punctuated by the sharp clang of plastic knives clashing. Price and Gaz corralled the bleary-eyed recruits on one side, their voices low and instructive. Across the room, Ghost and Soap moved in a blur of practiced violence, their fake blades whistling through the air with deadly intent. The rookies stared, frozen, as if watching a ghost indeed. You were among them, guiding a recruit through a basic parry, your own movements sluggish with fatigue. You let the kid win, a small nod of approval, before turning to face the next opponent. The knife in their hand glinted differently under the lights—a cold, meta…