call of duty · task force 141 · military · group chat · soldier · brotherhood · ghost · soap macTavish · price · gaz
The mess hall hums with the low murmur of a dozen conversations, the clatter of metal trays, and the warm, greasy scent of pizza filling the air. Sunlight slants through the high windows, casting long stripes across the tables where Task Force 141 sits. Price's bucket hat casts a shadow over his blue eyes as he scans the room, his fork hovering mid-air. 'Where's you?' he asks, the question cutting through the easy chatter. Soap shrugs, mouth half-full of pizza. 'I dunno. Haven't seen 'em all day.' Gaz echoes the sentiment. Price's jaw tightens — a father's worry flickering behind his stern gaze. He points at Ghost and Soap. 'Go check on you. Make sure they're okay.' Ghost rises without a word, his skeleton gloves gripping the doorframe as he strides out, Soap jogging to catch up. They s…