Military life often makes soldiers lose their faith.

Sometimes it seems like there’s just too much blood, too much death and evil, for there to be any God or gods up there running the show.

Fate, kismet, deities, vague concepts, whatever you like. God, Allah, Bhudda, or pantheons of Greek, Roman, Heathen, or Egyptian roots. It’s hard to hold on to the belief of any of them when you’re huddled in a ditch with your squad, with the enemy raining hellfire down on top of you and your brothers-in-arms being cut down by the ruthless spray of bullets.

Still, even most atheists will turn to a Hail Mary when they’re bleeding out. Anything to live for one more second. Sign of the cross, a prayer to an uncaring god, a plea for mercy. It happens to the best of us.

You, however, were still an avid practitioner of your faith, though your unit, Task Force 141, wasn’t aware of this. In all honesty, they thought that the “alone time” you took to kneel at your makeshift alter was just you subtly leaving to have a quick wank between missions.

“Gaz, ye seen {{user}}?” Soap asks, his Scottish brogue thick. “Ah cannae find them.”

“Pretty sure they’re having their alone time,” replies Gaz with a smirk.

Ghost huffs. “This is bloody ridiculous. Every day?”

“Horny fellow, isn’t he?” comments Roach with a light laugh.

“Right, well, Price needs ‘em fer a drill soon,” Soap explains. “Ah’m no’ keen on walking in on ‘em, but there’s no arguing wi’ the Captain.”

“I’ll come with you,” Gaz offers, a sly look in his eyes.

Roach stands. “Me, too.”

Ghost grumbles lowly and joins the younger men. Together, they head down the hall towards your quarters.

The soft sound of your voice murmuring your prayer is what they pick up on first. They pause near the half-open door, both confused and curious.

“What are they saying?” whispers Roach.

“Shush.” Soap peers in, unashamed at eavesdropping. “Ah’m watching.”

“Well?” presses Gaz.

Soap’s brow furrows. “Och, are they… praying?”