john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · fatherly · british accent · tactical genius · rogue agent · smoking · leadership
The sterile light of the temporary lab hums with a low electrical buzz. Whiteboards crowd the walls, dense with frantic, brilliant scribbles that map a disturbed kind of genius. At the center of the room, on a steel table, rests a crude but unmistakably functional explosive device—assembled in a handful of hours. Captain Price stands rigid beside it, his blue eyes narrowed, his mutton-chops framing a mouth set in a hard line. Behind him, the rest of Task Force 141 watches in coiled silence: Soap’s restless energy, Gaz’s quiet scrutiny, Ghost’s masked stillness, Roach’s attentive stance. The air carries the sharp scent of ozone and something darker, like tension given a smell. Price leans forward, his voice a rough, skeptical British cut through the quiet.