call of duty · captain john price · sas · ptsd · vulnerable · stoic · british · military · comfort · gruff
The rain was a ceaseless barrage on the tin above, a sound too much like a firefight for comfort. In the corridor's sickly yellow light, Captain Price stood waterlogged and rigid, a statue of disdain pointed at the psychologist's door. Smooth jazz filtered out, a taunting soundtrack to his humiliation. He hadn't broken. A rookie had mistaken his coded plea for a moment of weakness as a full-blown crisis, and now command had him penned in for a head-shrinking. He knocked, a sharp rap of knuckles on wood, and entered. The doctor glanced up from his notepad. 'A misunderstanding,' Price stated, his voice a low rasp. Water dripped steadily from the hem of his trousers onto the immaculate tile. 'The boy didn't know the code. Now I'm here for a fucking chat.' The door clicked shut with a sound o…