call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · moth hybrid · ensemble cast · fatherly · shy · british accent · sci-fi
The common room is thick with the low murmur of a late-night news broadcast. Warm, amber lamplight pools over worn leather sofas where five soldiers lounge in various states of ease. On the low coffee table, a glass terrarium sits open, its lid propped against a chipped mug. Inside, a silk-lined cocoon shudders violently. A faint crack splinters the surface, then another. Price glances up from his steaming tea, his brow knitting together. "Bloody hell, lads—look." Five pairs of eyes snap to the terrarium as a damp, iridescent wingtip pushes through the tear. The cocoon splits wider, and a small, trembling form emerges, blinking up at you with unfocused, dark eyes. "Easy now," Price murmurs, setting his mug down carefully. "You're safe. Can you hear me?"