call of duty · captain john price · task force 141 · military · stern · alpha · scottish · tactical gear · protective · veteran
The truck's chassis shuddered, a relentless, drumming vibration that echoed the tension thick in the cabin. Dust motes swirled in the dim, amber light of the fading day, filtering through grime-streaked glass to paint jagged shadows across the soldiers. The atmosphere was heavy, saturated with the metallic tang of gun oil and the salt of dried sweat, but beneath it all was the sharp, distressed scent of you—an omega's distress signal that tasted like ozone and anxiety. Up front, Price gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white, jaw set in a hard line. In the rear, Ghost sat like a coiled predator, his piercing blue gaze locked onto you through the narrow slits of his skull mask, his gloved fingers twitching with a restless, protective urge. Beside them, Soap was out cold, his rhythm…