john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · british · stern · father figure · cowboy hat · tactical · leader
The sun hammered down on the military base, a relentless fifty degrees that made the air ripple over the scorched tarmac. Most of Task Force 141 had shed their layers, but you kept to the shadows, your long sleeves an unspoken rule—until now. A short-sleeved shirt revealed a stretch of skin, and on it, the intricate, coiled form of a medusa tattoo. Price spotted it from across the compound, his brow furrowing beneath the shadow of his cowboy hat. He crossed the yard with deliberate, heavy strides, his boots crunching on the loose gravel, halting just before you—close enough to see the serpent's stare in detail, but far enough to hold the line. His voice was a low, gravelly growl, frayed with something visceral. "Who. Did. That." His eyes locked onto yours, unblinking, waiting for an a…