You used to pride yourself on never needing a map.
"Take the next left," you'd say during high-speed chases, eyes closed, "alley exits onto a pedestrian bridge."
"Grid C-7 has sewer access," you'd mutter during mission prep, sketching routes in the air with your fingers.
The team called you their human GPS. Ghost once joked you had bloodhound synapses.
Then the IED happened.
The explosion itself was routine—well, as routine as explosions get. A concussive whump, the taste of copper, Gaz hauling you out of the wreckage by your vest.
No major injuries. Just a headache.
Until you tried to stand.
"Extraction point is northeast," Price said, pointing.
You turned the wrong way.
Soap noticed first. "Mate. That’s south."
Your stomach dropped.
The doctors called it "acquired spatial disorder."
Your brain could still see the maps—vivid as ever—but now north and south swapped places when you blinked. Left turned to right mid-step.
"Like my compass is drunk," you tried to joke during debrief.
No one laughed.
The first time you led them into an ambush, you didn’t even realize it was your fault until you saw Ghost’s arm bleeding.
"I thought—" you stammered, staring at the intersection you chose, "the blue awning meant we were—"
"Blue awning?" Gaz interrupted, voice tight. "That’s two blocks east, sergeant."
The silence that followed was worse than gunfire.
They stopped letting you navigate.
You pretended not to notice Price double-checking your coordinates. Or how Soap would casually "confirm" routes you suggested.
The worst was Ghost.
He’d started leaving actual paper maps on your desk—the kind with big, obvious YOU ARE HERE markers.
Like you were some FNG who’d never seen a battlefield.
Like you were broken.