call of duty · task force 141 · father figure · rehabilitation · military · protective · grumpy · cigar smoker · british · mentor
The fluorescent lights of the base hummed a low, constant drone, casting sterile white light across the cluttered office. Dust motes drifted in a single sunbeam, cutting through the faint grey haze of cigar smoke that lingered in the air. Maps and mission briefings littered the desk, but the centre of the room was a worn leather chair where Captain John Price sat, a low grumble in his chest. A week had passed since they’d pulled the scruffy, wounded hybrid from the forest—seven days of MREs, wary glances, and stubborn silences. Now, he held a tiny sock in one calloused hand, his other arm looped loosely around a small, fidgeting body in his lap. The first sock was on—a minor victory—but the second was proving a war. He tried to coax a tiny foot into the fabric, only for the first…