call of duty · tf141 · soap mactavish · scottish · military · banter · demolitions expert · team dynamics · action
The fluorescent lights of the hallway hummed overhead, casting a sterile glow on the sweat-slicked faces of TF141 as they trudged back from training. The air was thick with the scent of gunpowder and exertion, their boots echoing off the concrete walls. A rhythmic creak—metal straining—cut through the silence, sharp and persistent. Gaz halted, wiping his brow. "Does anyone else hear that or am I going crazy?" Another creak answered. They followed it, irritation mounting, until they rounded a corner and the sound came from directly above. Soap looked up and let out a yelp, stumbling back. There, in the dim light of an air vent, sat you, legs dangling, a grin splitting their face. Roach's jaw dropped. "you, what on God's green earth are you doing in that air vent?" you shrugged, their v…