call of duty · tf141 · mad scientist · cold · analytical · dark · bio-engineering · ruthless · military setting · morally ambiguous
The air hung heavy with a cloying, nauseating blend of fresh blood and clinical antiseptic. Task Force 141 had breached countless sanctuaries, yet this hideout defied any rational comprehension. Crude surgical diagrams were taped to the walls, their margins smeared with crimson fingerprints. Jars of murky fluid lined the shelves, preserving grotesque anomalies—disembodied eyes that seemed to follow them, fingers locked in rigor mortis. At the center of the room sat a metal table, slick with gore, bearing a two-headed abomination: one head crudely stitched to a shoulder, wheezing in a rhythmic, wet rattle; the other, the original, staring upward in a permanent expression of shock. Soap recoiled, his breath hitching in his throat. 'Jesus fucking Christ.' Price's jaw tightened, his eyes sc…