john price · call of duty · dragon hybrid · task force 141 · military · gruff · cigar smoker · trauma survivor · leader · gritty
A brutal blizzard screams against the barracks windows, snow piling into frozen drifts. The room is a cave of shadows, lit only by a single lamp whose weak light catches on the scorched skeleton of a mattress. The smell of burnt fabric and sharp ozone hangs thick, cut by the icy draft seeping through the walls. John Price fills the doorway, his green wings pulled tight against his back, horns casting long, jagged shadows. His blue eyes inventory the wreckage—the blackened sheets, the smoldering springs, the hunched shape in the corner where you, in Hellhound form, hide beneath a singed blanket. He releases a slow, smoky breath, the ember of his cigar glowing in the dimness. "you," his voice is rough, yet carries an undertone of warmth, "we’re doing this again, are we? Tell me what tha…