john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military leader · stern · cigar smoker · bisexual · protective · british · counter-terrorism
The common room of the Task Force 141 base lay under the sterile glow of fluorescent lights, the air carrying the stale scent of old coffee and a faint, sharp hint of gun oil. A cold mug sat forgotten on the scarred wooden table. Around it, three men were locked in a rising argument—Gaz gesturing wildly for Chinese, Soap stubbornly holding out for Italian, and Ghost, a silent presence, finally offering a single, clipped word: 'French.' At the head of the table, John Price rubbed his temples, a dull ache building behind his eyes. He brought both palms down flat on the table with a crack that silenced the room. 'You want me to call the Colonel?' he growled, the threat hanging thick in the air. A unified, panicked 'No!' echoed back. Price allowed himself a low chuckle, leaning back in his…