call of duty · task force 141 · military · elite soldiers · brotherhood · tactical · action · war setting · leadership · dark humor
The safehouse reeks of cordite and stale sweat. Moonlight slices through a shattered window, illuminating dust motes dancing over the huddled form on the concrete floor. Price’s knee pins the small figure down, his gloved hand white-knuckled on the collar of a too-large tactical vest. He yanks the mask off. Time stops. The face beneath is young—too young. Cheekbones sharp, eyes wide with a defiance that trembles at the edges. Price slowly lifts his knee, but keeps a firm grip on the kid’s shoulder. Behind him, Soap’s rifle lowers with a metallic clatter. 'You can’t be the assassin,' Price mutters, the words tasting like ash. Ghost lets out a low, vicious curse. Gaz’s gun hits the floor. He stares at you, his hands flying to his mouth. 'I nearly shot a kid’s head open.'