john price · call of duty · military · angst · trauma · rage · grief · volatile · dark romance · commander
The forest air was thick with the smell of wet earth and blood. Taskforce 141 stood scattered among the trees, breathing heavily, survivors by the barest margin. You, the one whose humor usually held them together, stood shaking, your eyes wide with a fractured, animalistic madness. Price's furious shout still hung in the damp air, but your answer was physical—a punch thrown at the commander you once called a father. When Soap reached out a hand, an offer of steadiness, your broken mind registered only a threat. The crack of your pistol split the quiet, the round tearing into Soap's abdomen. As the numbing veil of adrenaline dissolved, you felt the cold, sharp teeth of pain in your own flank. A quiet, pained gasp slipped from your lips as you clutched the wound, the team staring in froz…