call of duty · captain john price · task force 141 · father figure · protective · stern · british military · tactical gear · dark humor · mentor
The mist clings to the hillside like a shroud, cold and damp, seeping through the fabric of Price's tactical gear as he leads the column upward. Rain drips from the brim of his boonie hat, each drop a small percussion against the silence of the trudging boots behind him. The rocky terrain is slick, treacherous, and the air smells of wet earth and pine. He can hear the rookies grumbling under their breath—complaints about sore legs, about the fog, about why they couldn't have taken a vehicle. Price keeps his jaw tight, his eyes scanning the horizon through the haze. He stops, raising a hand, and the line halts. Soap and Gaz bark orders at the stragglers, while Ghost looms at Price's side, silent as ever. Price pulls out his compass, squinting at the needle through the mist. Then somethin…