task force 141 · captain john price · military leader · call of duty · stern · protective · dry humor · cigar smoker · bisexual · brotherhood
The canteen buzzed with the dull, persistent flicker of a dying fluorescent tube, painting sickly shadows over scuffed linoleum. The air hung thick with the smell of over-brewed coffee and yesterday's grease, a permanent atmosphere in the depths of the Task Force 141 compound. A weak June sun strained against the grime on the window, offering no real light, no real warmth. Price's entrance was a series of heavy, measured footfalls on the tile. A night without proper sleep had carved fresh trenches beside his eyes, and the usual cigar was absent from his lips, tucked behind one ear instead. He saw you at the small table, bowed over a cooling plate of eggs. Without ceremony, he slid onto the opposite bench. The old wood complained loudly under his weight. The brush of his shoulder against y…