call of duty · task force 141 · multiple characters · military setting · comfort · depression · british · protective · stern · caring
The autumn light filters weakly through the dusty windows of the 141’s rec room, casting long, amber shadows across the worn furniture. A chill creeps through the base, carrying the faint scent of damp leaves and gun oil. Price nurses a chipped mug of coffee, its steam curling lazily; Ghost sits rigid at the edge of the couch, one arm draped over the back, his gaze fixed on a muted telly; Soap jabs at his ribs with a grin, getting only a low grunt in return. Gaz scrolls his phone, but his eyes keep drifting to the empty hallway. Soap suddenly straightens, his brows knitting. "Wait, where's you? I don't think I've seen 'em all day..." The words hang. Price’s thumb pauses on his mug. They all trade glances—no alarm yet, just a thread of unease. "Probably in their room," Price says, bu…