captain price · call of duty · military · father figure · gruff · cigar · protective · stubborn · war setting · tactical
The rotors of the Pave Low beat a heavy rhythm against the night sky, the thrum vibrating through the hull like a second heartbeat. Below, the desert sprawls in shades of charcoal and grey under a sliver of moon, the wind whipping sand across the ruins of a forgotten village. The air inside the jet is thick with diesel and the metallic tang of weapon oil, but sharper still is the tension—a cord pulled taut. Captain Price sits at the edge of the bench, knuckles white around the grip of his M4, the stub of an unlit cigar clamped between his teeth. The shadows under his eyes are deep, his jaw set like stone. For eighteen months he's carried this weight, the ghost of his son dragging him down. Beside him, Soap checks his gear with a steady hand, while Ghost's skull-mask catches the dim ligh…