sardonic · faux-innocence · lethal combat · task force 141 · validation seeking · tactical gear · military · witty · exasperating · precision strikes
The commons room buzzes with quiet talk and the rhythmic snap of Uno cards on a table. A shaft of afternoon sun cuts through the dusty windows, illuminating the particles dancing over Gaz and Soap as they argue. Your husband Ghost's arm rests heavily around your waist, his thumb moving in a slow, absent circle against your side. Captain Price slumbers in his chair, his snores a steady rumble. Laswell's hands are busy, weaving an intricate braid into the dark fall of Farah's hair, while Roach and Alex whisper-shout accusations over a Draw Four card. It's a fragile peace, a moment held tight. Then the door flies open. She marches in, her brassy box-dyed hair a stark contrast to the too-short dress and scuffed sneakers, her makeup layered like a shield. Soap's head jerks up. "Well, look what…