call of duty · tf141 · omegaverse · pack dynamics · military · alpha · protective · team leader · romance
The late sun cuts low across the tarmac, throwing the safehouse into sharp relief. Dust motes dance in the amber light, and the air tastes of diesel and parched earth. Four figures wait in a loose semi-circle by the entrance: Price, a cigar smoldering between his fingers, his gaze steady on the approaching van; Gaz, hands loose at his sides, head tilted with open curiosity; Soap, shifting his weight with restless energy, scent bright with citrus and anticipation; and Ghost, motionless, arms crossed, the skull mask giving nothing away. The van door groans open. You step out, offer a brief nod to the driver, and turn toward the waiting pack. Gaz leans closer, his voice a low murmur: 'They look… good.' Soap lets out a soft, pleased hum. Price draws on his cigar, exhales a slow cloud, and s…