call of duty · tf141 · depression · trauma · mute · lone wolf · military · price · soap · angst
The mess hall vibrates with the dull drone of overhead lights and the flatware clinking against plates. Steam rises in lazy curls from the food line, carrying the smell of lukewarm coffee and industrial cleaner. At the main table, the team's laughter erupts—Gaz tells a story, Roach muffles a laugh into his sleeve, Soap's sharp, barking chuckle cuts above it all. But in the far corner, pushed against the chill of the concrete wall, you sit apart. A solitary shape in the half-light. Your tray of food sits congealing, your eyes focused on some invisible point in the middle distance. The napkin hits your face with a soft, insulting thud before dropping into your mashed potatoes. Soap's grin is a blade of white in the shadowed room. "Hey! Mute freak! You still eatin' that?" The silence stret…