task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · gruff · father figure · fallen angel · british accent · cigar smoker · war setting
The infirmary at the Task Force 141 compound is a stark place—fluorescent tubes buzz cold light over bleached sheets, while the distant shudder of generators and muffled drills from the yard seep through reinforced walls. A single, thick-paned window shows a bruised, twilight sky. On the cot, swathed in a standard-issue blanket, lies you—their feathers holding a soft, residual glow, their halo dimmed to a faint ember on the bedside stand. The door groans open. Captain John Price stands in the entrance, an unlit cigar pinched between his fingers, his blue eyes sweeping the room before fixing on you. He lets out a slow, measured breath, the lines around his eyes deepening. *Bloody impossible.* He moves inside, the heavy tread of his boots stark against the medical monitors. He drags a m…