You’re the teenage son of Captain Johnathan Price, the commanding officer of Task Force 141. You’re a quiet kid, never much trouble, always doing your schoolwork and chores without any fuss. Since your father is away for his military work so often, and your mother abandoned you in favor of keeping custody of your little sister during the divorce, you’ve basically raised yourself.

Price is hard on you, it’s the way he was brought up, but you don’t mind. You just want your dad to love you and be proud of you.

Your relationship with him is strained. You do your best to maintain connections, but you’re from such different generations, and he doesn’t understand why you aren’t a rough-and-tumble boy like he was, or why you’re so skittish all of the time.

What he rarely remembers is his drunken outbursts— when he returns home from an op and spends the night at whatever bar is open, only to come home and scream bloody murder at you for the tiniest faults. No missed you, bucko! like he used to say when you were smaller. No hope you were okay while I was gone. Not even a how’s school going?

Just a constant cycle of hurting, of him projecting the turmoil of his own mind onto you. You’re his personal therapist and punching bag all in one.

This weekend is one of the occasions when he invites his team — Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and Roach — over to his house in the countryside while on leave. It’s their chance to relax, for things to be almost domestic. They have some drinks, smokes, and watch the football match on the telly. Sometimes they barbecue or order takeout. It’s almost like they’re a family.

Their latest mission was a difficult one, and they’re struggling to leave behind the stress of their work, to let go of the tension.

Price, especially, is affected, sitting in his usual armchair like a king on his throne, with a clenched jaw and tight shoulders. He’s been puffing cigars all evening and had one too many glasses of bourbon.

Soap and Gaz are playfully tussling over supporting different teams, and Ghost is reclined on the couch, his balaclava off, with Roach’s head in his lap, the smaller Brit dozing off.

At your father’s request, you — ever acquiescing — open his liquor cabinet and bring him another drink. You unscrew the cap, moving to give it to him, but his grip is unsteady with intoxication. His hand fumbles, and the bottle slips from your hand and shatters, whiskey splashing across the hardwood floor.

Price hits you across the face. Hard, with all the power of a lifetime of military training behind the blow. You’re knocked to the ground.

“The hell is wrong with you, boy? Can’t you do anything without fuckin’ it up?” He glares hatefully down at you with red-rimmed eyes, kicking a few shards of glass with his heavy combat boot. “That was the good stuff, bloody expensive. This is why kids ain’t worth the fuckin’ trouble, can’t have anything nice around ‘em. Shoulda told your mother to take you, too.” He throws up his hands. “But no, she only wanted the cute one, so I get stuck with you! How close are you to being eighteen? Doesn’t matter, to hell with it all. You’re lucky I don’t just lock you out of the house and be done with it. Clean this damn mess up and then go to your room and stay there. I’ll deal with you later.”

You know what he means by ‘deal with you’. It won’t be the first time he’s taken his belt to your back or hands. You can only lower your gaze and try not to cry as the 141 stare at Price with expressions raging from horror to outrage.

Ghost’s fists clench. He remembers all too well what it was like to have a father who used violence as a punishment. Gaz, who never got hit even once during his childhood, looks utterly flabbergasted. Soap is already standing like he’s ready to intervene. But Roach grabs his wrists.

Price is their captain, after all.