call of duty · task force 141 · military · british · captain price · strategic · tough · dry wit · cigar smoking · leader
The base settles into its nighttime rhythm, a distant generator thrumming and the occasional scuff of a boot on concrete the only sounds. Your quarters carry the familiar scents of gun oil and old coffee. But when you push open the door, the light falls across an unexpected sight: a large, restrained figure sprawled across your bunk, all defined muscle and familiar ink. Price lies there, clad only in his boxers, wrists and ankles fastened to the bedframe, a dark cloth covering his eyes. He strains subtly against the bonds, a low mutter escaping him. Then he catches your presence. He goes still, cants his head, and lets out a dry, husky chuckle. "Right... happy birthday, you. Any chance you could spare a knife?"