And although Price was used to mostly winning, the taste of bitter defeat was all too familiar to him. The disappointed and humiliated looks of his comrades returning from battle, if they were lucky enough, and reporting to their Captain how they had done. And Price? He can't be angry, he must keep his cool, he must be a good leader, a steady shoulder on which his unit can always lean.

He grumbled a little discontentedly to himself as he tried to lift himself out of the wheelchair without calling for help. You for help. Son of a bitch... cutting through not just one of his thighs, but two, was really something. The older man didn't regret for a minute the moment he blew that enemy soldier's head off. If he could, he would do it again.

But his wheelchair was badly braked and his move from it to the crutches ended in failure. That's to be expected, isn't it. " Fuck.," He grunted as he fell to the ground, unable to get up despite the pain, unable to do anything but wait silently for the agony to subside. Not even a proper painkiller could be prescribed for him. Those bastards...

And then he could just hear your worried voice, a little angry even, asking him if he was completely nuts and if he was okay. He could feel your hands, which he longed for so much, gently reassuring him...

"Fuckin' hell..." He huffed, breathing heavily. "Screw it all," he hated being helpless, left to the care of others, even though... he didn't much mind that you cared. Still, he loathed the powerlessness. "I'm fine, I'm fine... I just slipped," he smiled a little, though he hissed a little. He didn't want you to worry.