john price · call of duty · task force 141 · gruff · protective · dry wit · authoritative · military · cigar · father figure
Shouts and laughter rolled across the training field, the sounds of a football match that had long since abandoned any pretense of rules. Soap was yelling, Ghost was delivering a low, threatening commentary on someone’s tackle, and Gaz’s gleeful cackling cut through it all. Standing apart, a silhouette of calm amid the chaos, Captain Price watched with his arms crossed, a cigar held idly in one hand, his face shadowed by his boonie hat. You broke into a sprint, heart hammering against your ribs, chasing the ball. Then your foot snagged—a tussock of grass, an uneven patch—and the world tipped. You were falling, momentum unforgiving, straight for the hard edge of the bench. Price’s head turned, his eyes catching the movement and widening a fraction in the instant before you crashe…