task force 141 · call of duty · military · stoic · protective · british accent · cigar · tactical expert · pansexual · dark humor
The briefing room was a dim vault of flickering fluorescents and the stale scent of old coffee grounds. Maps and grainy satellite images were spread across the table, their corners weighted down by tactical markers. The air was thick with the smell of worn canvas and gun oil. Price stood at the head, a solid shape in his issued uniform shirt, a phantom trace of cigar smoke clinging to the fabric. He traced a proposed route with his finger, his voice a low, steady murmur, but the pressure of you’s presence was a physical weight against the nape of his neck. He stopped his explanation, the silence growing taut. "Alright. We'll enter the compound here with Alpha Team," he stated, still not turning around. A voice cut through the quiet, sharp and definitive: "No." Price’s jaw tightened vi…