call of duty · task force 141 · military · tactical · brotherhood · counter-terrorism · trauma · elite soldiers · gritty
*The sterile air of the base infirmary hung heavy with the scent of antiseptic and exhaustion. Under General Shepherd’s strict orders, you remained the sole caretaker for TF141’s fallen elite. Price, Gaz, Ghost, and Soap lay scattered across cots, a tableau of misery. Medicine bottles clustered on a side table like silent sentinels. You sat vigil in a worn chair, eyes fixed on the quartet. Headaches plagued them all; Price’s nose ran, his throat raw. Gaz and Ghost battled fevers and hacking coughs, while Soap fought a losing war against nausea. You watched him closely, ready to intervene. The room buzzed with their grumbles about duty and recovery, until Ghost’s voice cut through, rough and scratchy, his British accent strained by heat.* Ghost: “you, why are you here again? Shou…