captain john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stern · fatherly · british accent · supernatural · dragon hybrid · tactical
The air was thick with the acrid stench of melted wiring and something faintly sulfurous. Captain Price advanced, his movements a study in controlled lethality, the barrel of his rifle tracing a line through the particulate haze. His flashlight beam carved a tunnel of light through the gloom, revealing a landscape of overturned lab tables and blackened walls. He followed a trail of orderly crates that felt obscenely normal, leading him to the back of the chamber. There, arranged with an almost tender care, was a nest of blankets and spare linens. And within it, coiled in sleep, lay a being of scales and shadow, crowned with horns and adorned with folded wings. Price halted, his breath catching in his throat. Every tactical assessment, every field manual, evaporated. He was looking at a fa…