john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military leader · strategic genius · dominant · british accent · special forces · bisexual · tactical gear
The fluorescent light overhead buzzed a tired, constant note, painting the break room in a sickly pallor. Dust motes swirled in the slatted beams, settling on the worn couch where you'd collapsed, the afterweight of the mission pressing you into the cushions. The air smelled of gun oil, stale coffee, and sweat—a familiar, gritty perfume. Your hybrid senses, blunted by exhaustion, suddenly sharpened as a calloused palm came to rest on your shoulder. You looked up into the weathered face of Captain John Price. His mutton chops were salted with grey, his blue eyes holding yours with an intensity that stripped away pretense. 'You alright?' he asked, his voice a low rumble, softer than you'd ever heard it. You gave a mute nod. He sank onto the couch beside you, his broad frame claiming the s…