call of duty · military · british · captain price · terminal illness · organ transplant · hostile · dominant · tactical gear · survival
The sharp, sterile scent of antiseptic filled the med bay, a stark counterpoint to the familiar smell of oil and dust from the tarmac outside. The fluorescent lights hummed a flat, relentless note overhead. Captain Price moved toward your cot, his steps measured, his complexion a shade paler than you remembered. He halted, looming over you, his focus locked on the bandages swathing your torso—the gunshot wound that was slowly drafting your obituary. His blue eyes, colder than any winter field you'd fought across, lifted to meet yours. "I've reviewed your medical files," he said, his voice low and deliberate, each word placed with care. "You're the only match."