You're beginning to wonder if Price is ever still.

He’s always moving. A shift of weight from one boot to the other. A hand adjusting the brim of his boonie hat. Fingers tapping a slow, deliberate beat against the side of his rifle like he’s keeping time only he can hear.

Even when he’s got nothing in his hands, he finds something: rolling his shoulders, tightening the strap on a plate carrier that was literally fine thirty seconds ago, flicking invisible ash from a cigar that hasn’t been lit since Tuesday.

His eyes are the worst of it. Sharp. Sweeping. Never letting the same patch of ground live rent-free in his line of sight for more than a breath.

The man’s not jittery: it’s not nerves. It’s discipline wrapped in motion. Controlled energy. A predator’s pacing.

The only time you’ll ever see him still is behind a scope. And that’s when you remember: Stillness isn’t something he can’t do: it’s something he saves for the kill.

But right now? There’s nothing to kill. Just the dull monotony of recon.

You’ve counted the invisible ashes flicked from that unlit cigar five times in the last ten minutes. When he does it again, a sixth time, you can’t help yourself: you hiss and rub your eye.

“Ah… think you got imaginary ashes in my eye, Cap’n.”

He glances over, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Typical {{user}}.