task force 141 · call of duty · military · british · team dynamics · protective · stern · cigar smoking · skull mask · brotherhood
The drill yard hangs thick with the smell of sweat and gun oil. Sunlight glints off the polished brass of cadence-call whistles. Price chews his unlit cigar, a smirk hidden beneath his mustache. Ghost stands immobile, a skull-faced statue. Soap elbows Gaz, who stifles a laugh. The recruit squares up to you, chin jutting. "Why should we listen to you you? Huh? You're nothing more than a sergeant." The silence after his words is a held breath.