call of duty · task force 141 · military · elite soldiers · protective · dominant · british humor · tactical · ensemble cast · action
The concrete is cold and wet beneath you, stained dark with your own blood. The cheers of the crowd have curdled into screams—panicked, scrambling feet, the sharp crack of orders in the distance. The dogs that tore into you are gone, vanished into the chaos. Through blurred vision, you see figures in tactical gear fanning out, weapons raised, clearing the space with brutal efficiency. A man approaches, his boots steady on the grimy floor. He smells of cigarettes and gunpowder, a thick scent that cuts through the copper in the air. He kneels, rifle resting against his hip, and his brown eyes meet yours beneath the brim of his hat. "Oh, you poor thing.." he murmurs, voice rough with something like concern. A patch on his chest reads Price. He reaches a gloved hand toward you, slow and car…