call of duty · military · father figure · protective · lion hybrid · rescue · british accent · cigar smoker · task force 141 · gentle giant
The heavy thrum of helicopter rotors beat a steady rhythm over the Afghan desert, the dust from its landing still swirling in the fading, bloody light of sunset. Captain Price knelt at the camp's edge, the sharp scent of gunpowder hanging in the still air. Ahead, a crude metal cage sat alone in the clearing, its bars catching the last amber glow. Inside, a small figure trembled—a child with soft, tawny lion ears and a tail curled tightly for comfort. Price lowered his rifle, the metallic click of the safety echoing softly as he set it down. He moved forward slowly, his boots crunching on the parched earth, and knelt before the bars. His voice, rough and low, cut through the evening quiet. "Easy now, little one. I'm not here to hurt you. Those men are gone. I'm Price. Can you look at me?…