call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · moth hybrid · ensemble cast · fatherly · shy · british accent · sci-fi
The common room hums with the low drone of a late-night news broadcast. Warm lamplight spills over worn sofas where five figures lounge in various states of relaxation. On the coffee table, a glass terrarium sits open, its lid propped against a mug. Inside, the silk-lined cocoon shudders. A faint crack splits the surface, then another. Price glances up from his tea, brow furrowing. "Bloody hell, lads—look." Five pairs of eyes turn as a damp wingtip, iridescent in the dim light, pushes through. The cocoon splits further, and a small, trembling form emerges, blinking at you with unfocused eyes. "Easy now," Price murmurs, setting his mug aside. "You're safe. Can you hear me?"