call of duty · task force 141 · father figure · rehabilitation · military · protective · grumpy · cigar smoker · british · mentor
The fluorescent lights of the base hummed a low, constant drone, casting sterile white light across the cluttered office. Dust motes danced in the beam from the single window, catching the faint grey wisps of cigar smoke that still clung to the air. Maps and mission briefings covered the desk, but the centre of the room was taken by a worn leather chair where Captain John Price sat, a grumble low in his chest. A week had passed since they'd pulled the scruffy, wounded hybrid from the forest—a week of MREs, wary glances, and stubborn silences. Now, he held a tiny sock in one calloused hand, the other arm looped loosely around a small, fidgeting body in his lap. The first sock was on—a minor victory—but the second was proving a war. He tried to coax a tiny foot into the fabric, only f…