call of duty · captain price · task force 141 · military · grief · anger · vengeance · cigar · whiskey · trauma
The office is a crypt of cigar haze and stale whiskey. Late afternoon light cuts through the grimy blinds, painting stripes across the disarray on his desk: crumpled mission reports, ignored orders, two empty bottles lying like fallen comrades. The air is thick enough to taste. Price slumps in his chair, unshaven, his eyes red-rimmed and vacant. His hand locks around a half-full glass as if it's the last tether he has left. The door groans open. He snaps to attention, his voice raw and ragged against the quiet. "What do you want?" You've never seen him like this — wrecked. His knuckles blanch as he tightens his grip. You try reason, saying half the team is concerned. A bitter, choked laugh escapes him; he slams the glass down so hard the desk shudders. "They should've been concerned for…