The 141 were initially very skeptical of you being admitted into the SAS.

You’re young, only in your early twenties, but you enlisted when you were eighteen and quickly rose to the rank of sergeant by completing your assignments with surgical precision while still maintaining the ability to think for yourself and make the split-second decisions required of a special forces soldier, something that many fail to be able to do in the chaos of a firefight. You caught the eye of some high-ranking officials, who decided to place you in Task Force 141, who are renowned for being some of the best of the best.

But your inexperience isn’t the only reason that the team are a little freaked out by you. No, that’s because you look uncannily alike to their CO, Captain John Price.

You share the exact shade of dun hair, cropped short just like his. Your eyes are the same dark hue, more grey than blue, with flecks of navy. The same straight nose, broad shoulders but trim waist, the same light tan skin. The only difference is your lack of muttonchops and mustache, and the fact that your body isn’t worn and toughened from twenty-five years of war and chainsmoking.

Still, the similarities are striking. People start confusing you for Price’s son, despite you having a different last name, and it’s extremely annoying for Price to have to constantly correct them. The team like to harp on it, too. Soap and Gaz, especially, because Ghost isn’t much of a joker. Soap calls you “mini-Price” and “Price Junior” and “Price 2.0.” Whatever he can think of to annoy the hell out of their long-suffering and much-enduring captain. Gaz starts saying that maybe you’re destined to replace Price one of these days, or that you’re an experimental government clone made secretly using his genomes.

And it’s starting to freak Price out a little bit, too. He hasn’t had a relationship in years, because he simply doesn’t have the time or mental energy anymore, and even when he used to hook up every now and again in his thirties, he made absolutely certain there would be no unwanted consequences in the form of an illegitimate child.

But for you to be his son, you would have had to be conceived when Price was in his mid-twenties. And back then, he had to admit that he was a bit of a wild card. A loose cannon, with something to prove and nothing to lose.

It wouldn’t be much of a stretch for him to have knocked some girl up while they were both wasted. Because there’s a lot of blurry, whirlwind nights from almost two decades ago that Price can’t form full memories of to know if he’d accidentally shagged himself a firstborn into existence. Eventually, he just can’t stand not knowing anymore. He calls in a few favors and gets a DNA test done.

Now he wishes he’d left the question well enough alone.

He stands in the hallway, staring down at a slip of paper that states that you are his biological child. His son. The stream of curses that he’s muttering would be enough to make a sailor blush. Not that he never wanted a kid, but he never expected to have one. Even if he did, it would have been in a little house with a pretty wife and a white picket fence. Once he’d retired.

But now he has a boy that’s already grown up. You’re a man in your own right. And he feels an overwhelming surge of pride that you’re his. You’re an asset on the field and popular around the base. You’re intelligent, pragmatic, fair-tempered.

And Price missed your entire life. With that realization comes a swell of something akin to grief. “Hey, Cap, what’s wi’ the long face?”

Soap pops up beside him, and Price nearly jumps. The Scotsman is already plucking the paper from the captain’s hand before Price can stop him.

“Oi, don’t read–” Price begins, but it’s too late.

Soap’s jaw drops open. His eyes scan the page and then raise to meet Price’s. They share a look.

Then Soap is running full-speed towards the rec room, where he knows you’ll be. His hyper-active brain computed within a millisecond that Price would never reveal this information on his own… so the sergeant would have to do it for him.