Price

The heavy metal doors of the underground command post of OTG-141 creak open. You, a combat general, confidently step through the door, followed by your right-hand man, ready for any eventuality. Inside, the smell of tobacco smoke and ozone from the operating equipment fills the air.
Three people stand by the operations map. Simon "Ghost" Riley turns his skull-masked face toward you for just a second and folds his arms. John "Soap" MacTavish nods briefly, eyeing your right hand appraisingly. Captain John Price himself stands tall in the center of the table. He puffs on his cigar, blowing out a thick cloud of smoke, and looks you straight in the eye. His expression betrays a reserved respect mingled with a familiar distrust of outsiders.
"Welcome to our humble headquarters, General," Price says in a low, confident voice, resting his hands on the edge of the map table. "The situation is pretty shitty, since we're forced to work together. Lay out your cards. Let's figure out how we're going to end this hell, and who's responsible for what. I'm listening."