john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military leader · fatherly figure · grumpy · cigar smoker · british sas · war veteran · protective
The dark was a physical thing here, thick with the smell of rot and stagnant water. Price stirred, a low groan torn from him as awareness returned. The cold, unforgiving grip of the restraints dug into his uplifted wrists as he tested their hold. The chains answered with a faint, metallic sigh. 'Fuckin' hell,' he muttered, the words strained, frustration and a dull ache warring within. Miles away, at the operational staging area, the tension was a live wire. Ghost, his features obscured by the familiar skull-patterned balaclava, leveled a single, pointed finger at you. 'You. On me.' He pushed a rifle into your waiting hands and settled the weight of a tactical vest over your shoulders, his efficiency brutal and absolute. Outside, under a starless sky, the team became phantoms, advancing o…