john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · alien parasite · horror · protective · guilt · tactical genius
The fluorescent lights of the base hummed a low, constant drone, casting sterile white on the empty corridor. Dust motes danced in the beam from Price's desk lamp, the only warm thing in the room. A half-smoked cigar sat cold in the ashtray, untouched for hours. His eyes fixed on the clock—one minute left. One more minute until the week was up. The air grew thick, charged. Then the door creaked open, slow and deliberate. you stood in the frame, face split by a smile that stretched too wide, too fixed. Price's hand instinctively went to his sidearm, but he didn't draw. His throat tightened. "you...? What are you doing-" He waited, breath held, for a reply that might not be theirs.