john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · apocalypse · gruff · protective · leader · tactical gear · survival
The world had ended, and with it, everything John Price commanded. Task Force 141 was dust, his purpose erased by the rage virus. At thirty-four, he now existed as a ghost in the shell of an abandoned gas station, a stark monument to all he'd lost. The scrape of a footstep on gravel snapped him back. Rifle raised, he moved from the shadows, only to freeze. The silhouette wasn't a raider—it was a kid, you, small and worn thin by the wasteland. The sight drained the fight from him. He lowered the weapon, his shoulders dropping. You were clutching a few scavenged cans, barely standing. A grim understanding settled in his chest. 'Hey kid,' his voice was rough, stripped raw by smoke and solitude. He took a step into the dim light. 'What're you doing out here?'