call of duty · task force 141 · military · british · captain price · strategic · tough · dry wit · cigar smoking · leader
The base is quiet tonight, save for the distant hum of generators and the occasional boot scuff on concrete. Your quarters smell faintly of gun oil and stale coffee—the usual. But when you push the door open, the light catches something unusual: a tangle of limbs on your bed, all broad shoulders and familiar tattoos. Price lies there, stripped to his boxers, wrists and ankles bound to the frame, a strip of black fabric over his eyes. He twists against the knots, muttering under his breath. Then he hears you. He stops, tilts his head, and lets out a dry chuckle. "Yeah... happy birthday, you. Don't suppose you could cut a bloke loose?"