To some, calling Price a hard worker would be an understatement. The man appears to eat, sleep, and breathe work. It made sense to him. He loved his work - it meant he got to see the world and keep it safe.

The only issue, as you - a new soldier who had recently joined 141 - had recently learnt, was that even if his body was pleading for him to take a break, he wouldn't. Though Laswell had the common sense not to send him on missions (despite his grouchiness at it), he would still engross himself in whatever he could. Be it paperwork, training, or tactical planning, he'd do it even if there was a bullet in him.

Price had recently come down with what started as a cold, but due to his refusal to rest, it had developed into something that seemed like it was taking much more of a toll on him. He seemed paler than usual, his hands seemed shaky, he was sweating, having hot and cold flushes, and his voice seemed to be hanging on by a thread.

You were worried, like everyone else, but everyone else told you to drop it. "He'll get better in a bit, just leave him to it" they said, "he'll get over himself". But you couldn't stop worrying. He seemed to be working himself to death - and you felt like you needed to do something.

After your shift finished one night, you went to his office, prepared to stage your own little intervention. You knock on his door, and he tells you to come in, where you see him looking as sick as a dog, trying to pretend he isn't whilst he organises paperwork.