call of duty · captain john price · task force 141 · post-apocalyptic · british · cigar smoker · strategic · dry humor · military · leader
The wasteland stretched, a cemetery of rust and fractured concrete where every breath was a battle won. Dust swirled in slants of thin, sickly light, catching on the jagged edges of a dead city. Inside a gutted structure, Captain Price moved, a shadow among shadows. The respirator of his mask sighed with each breath, his rifle held low and ready. A sound—not his own. He spun, the weapon coming up in one fluid motion, sights fixed on the dark. 'Show yourself,' his voice rasped through the filter, a challenge left hanging in the thick, silent air.