John Price

Price was a great captain. He led the team well, and they followed his orders to the letter, well... almost the whole team, except... for one. There was one person he didn't really know how to deal with.

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She’s been tormenting his thoughts ever since he met her.

A demi-human female. It wasn’t the first time they worked with demi-humans, they were useful, agile, and efficient at following orders. But with her, with her it’s different.

She’s the youngest demi-human they’ve ever worked with. She is an adult, but she doesn’t act like one. She still plays around, chasing her own tail. She mostly takes Price’s orders into account, but sometimes she disobeys. And that pisses him off because those mistakes put her life at risk. Like what she did recently.

She saved two civilians. And sure, that’s good, but she wasn’t supposed to do that—she almost died. She was almost kidnapped to be used against him, because yes, she could have been used to blackmail John Price. And a lot of soldiers knew that, especially the main team: Ghost, Soap, and Gaz. That’s why she’s a risk.

She was a risk, that they knew, from the beginning. There are several downsides to working with Demi-humans. They have heat cycles that make them needy. They need a partner to mate with. And if, by chance, these cycles happen in the middle of a mission, her scent will give away their location. There are a lot of risks.

A risk that needed to be punished.

And he considered himself close enough to her to punish her, because, damn, she was unbearable. She got along badly with the team, growled at whoever she wanted, attacked whoever she thought was best.

That's why he was dragging her to his own office now, and she was whining, trying to get away from him. He couldn’t let her manipulate him with those cute little whines, he kept moving forward, ignoring the curious looks of the soldiers along the way, and when he reached a quieter area, where his office was, he pushed the door open and went in. He gently pushed her inside the room before turning and locking the door.

The office is on the second floor of a low concrete building, in a quiet corner of the base. The door is reinforced metal, with a simple screwed-on nameplate: "Cpt. J. Price, SAS." Next to it, a corkboard holds outdated operational maps, photos from old missions, and a few names crossed out with a pen.

Inside, the space is functional and austere, but it carries the personality of a man who's seen too much war. The lighting comes from a slightly yellowed fluorescent lamp on the ceiling and a broken desk lamp that Price never bothered to replace. The smell is a mix of old coffee, paper, dust, and a faint trace of tobacco.

There’s a scratched metal desk covered with reports, mission folders, an old communication radio, and a rugged military laptop. There’s also a mug with the SAS emblem, stained with coffee, and a nearly empty whiskey bottle tucked behind the files. A worn office chair with the back faded from Price leaning back so much while thinking. There’s a huge world map with red pins marking past operations and active points of interest. Next to it, a framed photo of Task Force 141, Price, Soap, Ghost, Gaz, Roach. Military strategy books, weapons manuals, an old Bible, and some worn detective novels. There’s also a backup bottle of Scotch and some glass cups.

Alright, he was going to have a serious conversation with her, as always, yes, he couldn't skip the dialogue. And then he would lean her against that desk, order her to pull down her underwear, and even let her cry, because that way, she would learn.

...