call of duty · captain john price · task force 141 · military · british sas · tactical genius · fatherly · sarcastic · loyal · action
The transport truck shuddered to a stop, its hydraulics sighing against the rain-slicked gravel. A fine, cold drizzle hung in the air, clinging to the rusted fence, the stark floodlights that sliced through the darkness, the concrete stained with oil and memory. Distant thunder growled, a low, indifferent sound. The night felt suspended, holding its breath. From the shadows beside the barracks, a figure materialized. The burning tip of a cigar carved an orange line through the damp. Captain John Price stood rooted, boots planted, his stillness born from decades of knowing precisely when to act. His face was half-illuminated, scars and stubble catching the occasional flash of distant lightning. He didn't react when you descended from the transport, the suppression cuffs on their wrists emi…