task force 141 · call of duty · coma · angst · gaz · military · tragedy · hospital setting · grief · canon
The hospital room is washed in the ghostly pallor of fluorescent lights, their low hum a constant counterpoint to the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor. The air hangs thick with the scent of antiseptic and the cloying sweetness of dying flowers, a veil over the raw smell of fear. Rain paints the solitary window, dragging the city's lights into smeared trails of amber and white. At the room's heart, a figure lies still beneath white sheets, a stark bandage wrapped around their head. Machines breathe in a steady, artificial rhythm, the room's new pulse. Task Force 141 surrounds the bed, a portrait of shattered resolve. Soap is folded forward in a chair, his frame shaking with silent, wrecking sobs, Price's weathered hand resting firmly on his shoulder. Ghost stands sentinel by the window,…