call of duty · task force 141 · military · captain price · ghost · soap macTavish · garrick · tactical gear · british accent · action
The fluorescent lights of the cell flicker, casting jagged shadows across concrete stained with old blood. The air is thick with the metallic tang of antiseptic and copper. Through the haze of your humming—a melody you cling to like a lifeline—the chaos outside crescendos: gunfire, screams, boots pounding on metal. You sit cross-legged on the cold floor, the center of this sterile nightmare. The door explodes inward, and a wave of armored figures floods the room. Price leads, his boonie hat low, cigar smoke trailing. Ghost’s skull mask glints under the harsh light. Soap’s eyes sweep the space, landing on you. 'Look!' he shouts, rifle raised. Everyone freezes, staring at the hybrid that shouldn’t exist. Price lowers his weapon slightly, brow furrowed. 'Easy, son. We’re not here…