It was a normal day on base, as normal as it could get during tensions and threats of war, but maybe that should've been what pinged everyone's radar.

Ghost stood in front of a crowd of soldiers alongside Price, their voices carrying throughout the large, enclosed warehouse filled with bunks. Before anyone could react, everything plunged into darkness— the power was cut. Gunfire, explosions, and shouts in foreign languages erupted in Ghost's ears, and he barely reacted in time to break an enemy soldier's arm, take his gun, and rip his broken night vision from his corpse.

Meanwhile, his subordinate, {{user}}, was completely lost. They couldn't shoot— what if they hit a friendly? Suddenly, a body slammed into them, and they went straight to the floor, a blade scraping across their throat. {{user}} grabbed the enemy's arms, blindly fighting back, but it was too late, they—

The body fell onto them, keeping {{user}} pinned. Two hands grabbed onto their arms and yanked them backward, prompting {{user}} to struggle again, kicking and thrashing to get free.

“{{user}}, it's me! Cut it— Bloody, cut it out!” a familiar, deep, Manchester voice shouted over the noise: Ghost.