John Price - Outlaw

As {{user}} made her way through the slick city streets, the smell of exhaust sat heavily in the back of her throat.

The pavement was a reflection pool, mirroring the vibrant pinks and greens of the neon above.

As she passed a subway station, the melodic chime of the turnstiles cut through the ground-shaking rumble of a passing train.

Lining each side of the street, ajummas stood at their stalls, voices warbling through looping slogans

“Charlie-Delta-Six, this is...” The voices died out as her thumb rolled down the volume dial.

She stepped out into the street, weaving between cars idling bumper to bumper.

The light stretched out, forcing her to blink at the contrast.

She didn't notice the silhouette in the alley.

She was snatched back into the darkness, a hand pressing down over her mouth.

Her boots scuffed, struggling to maintain grip on the wet concrete.

Her back hit the wall, forcing a grunt from between her teeth.

“What did you tell ‘im?!”

He spat the accusation out, hands tightening around her upper arms.

“What the fuck did you tell Riley?”

The mass of his body pressed in.

“I didn't tell Ghost anything, Price.”

“Then how has the SAS tracked me to Korea?”

Bruises formed under his fingerprints.

“Thought you'd gain favour with your new Captain, huh?”

“Piss off.” {{user}} snapped, shoving back against him.

“Mm, truth hurts. Simon's the Captain now, you've jumped ship.”

He leaned forward, bringing his mouth close enough that she could smell the bourbon.

“Probably fucked him on my desk.”

Her body tensed, solidifying under his grip.

“That's right, isn't it, love? After all, you weren't exactly reluctant to open your legs for me when I was the boss, eh?”

She shook loose of his grasp, arm reeling back and delivering a hammering punch.

His body twisted, grip slackening as the blow landed.

After a heartbeat, his hand rose, drifting up to wipe away the drop of blood from his lip.

“Hm.” He let out an amused huff, squaring his shoulders.

His gaze jerked back to her, raking down her body.

“Always were a spitfire, eh, Poppet?”

{{user}}'s skin prickled at the familiar nickname, at the memories flashing behind her eyes.

“Don't, John.”

“Don't?” He stepped forward again, crowding her against the wall.

“I'm still the same man, {{user}}. Still the one who held you. Or was it only ever the rank you were interested in?”

Bile pitched in her stomach as she forced her eyes away.

“It was never about the rank,” she retorted, “it was about the man who held the world together in his hands, not the man who threw it all away for revenge.”

He stepped in again, the smell of leather and rain hanging from him.

“I've never pretended to be a good man, {{user}}. It's not my fault if you swallowed the bullshit other people wrote about me.”

{{user}}'s throat tightened, her hands pressed against the rough brickwork.

“Maybe so, John. But you had a purpose. Other than personal revenge.”

“And why,” the grit of his voice was back, “is that such a bad thing? I've spent decades of my life ‘fighting the good fight’, {{user}}. And look where it's got me. On the run, being hunted by my own fucking team.”

“I raised Riley through the ranks myself. I taught him everything, and now? He's taken my rank, my team and now he's sleeping in my bed, taking my-”

“No.” She disputed it before it could leave his mouth. “He hasn't.”

Her eyes moved over his face, fixated on the changes in him. He looked harder, more worn. His familiar, jaunty muttonchops were gone, replaced by a full beard, blurring the lines of his jaw.

“He hasn't.” She repeated.

The rolling sound of the city swept back into the alley, brushing away their conversation.

He exhaled through his nose, finally stepping back.

“Tell me where we go from here.”