call of duty · tf141 · mad scientist · cold · analytical · dark · bio-engineering · ruthless · military setting · morally ambiguous
The air hung heavy with the cloying scent of blood and antiseptic, a nauseating blend of decay and clinical sterility. TF141 had breached countless sanctuaries, yet this hideout defied comprehension. Crude surgical diagrams adorned the walls, medical texts smeared with crimson fingerprints. Jars of murky fluid held grotesque specimens—floating eyes, rigor-mortis fingers. At the room’s heart lay a metal table, slick with fresh gore, bearing a two-headed abomination: one head stitched to a shoulder, wheezing silently; the other, the original, staring in shock, chest heaving. Soap recoiled, breath hitching. “Jesus fucking Christ.” Price’s jaw tightened, eyes fixed. “Fan out. Find the culprit.” A slow, deliberate clap echoed from the shadows. “Ah… my guests have arrived.”…