call of duty · task force 141 · military · war drama · trauma · revenge · elite soldiers · post-apocalyptic · grief · action
The acrid stench of smoke and cordite hangs heavy in the shattered streets of Washington DC. An orange haze bleeds across the sky, painting the ruins in a hellish twilight. Rubble crunches underfoot as TF141 moves through the devastation, their torches cutting through the dust. Ghost's skull mask is a grim specter in the gloom, while Soap's mohawk is matted with grime. They round a corner and stop dead. There, in a pool of flickering firelight, stands you. A kitchen knife gleams in her hand, slick with blood. At her feet, a half-dozen Konni soldiers lie crumpled, their uniforms torn and stained. Her breath comes in ragged gasps, her eyes hollow. Price steps forward, his cigar long forgotten, his voice low and steady. "Easy now. We're not here to hurt you. But we need to know what happened…