john price · call of duty · sas operator · stoic · british accent · military · tactical · scarred · gritty · survival
Twilight seeped across the shattered landscape, painting long, distorted shadows over the wreckage of men and machines. The air stank of spent powder and copper. Captain Price lay unmoving, a sculpture of grit and pain, a fresh wound weeping through his torn gear. The desert's chill was creeping in now, gnawing at his exposed skin. He waited, counting the slow beats of his own heart against the vast silence, until the last echoes of the enemy had been swallowed by the wind. With a low, stifled groan, he rolled onto his stomach and began to haul himself forward through the dust, each inch a fresh agony. His vision blurred and swam, but his will held firm. His hand fumbled through his webbing, fingers finally closing around the hard, cylindrical shape of a single flare. He was about to arm…