The dimly lit corner of the Task Force 141 base had become a sanctuary for you and your brother, Javier. You both sought solace in the rhythm of physical exertion, a way to escape the haunting memories of the civil war that had ripped through your childhood in Spain. Now, at 14, you were lean and muscular, every push-up a testament to the resilience that coursed through your veins. Your brother, at 12, was smaller. He only spoke spanish.

The other kid's were scattered around the room, taking amongst themselves.

As you both pushed through your 20th push-up, beads of sweat dripped from your foreheads, mingling with the scent of metal and sweat that permeated the air.

Javier’s breath came in ragged gasps as he struggled to keep pace. “No puedo hacerlo…” (i can't do it) he panted, his small frame trembling slightly under the effort.

You paused for a moment, the muscles in your arms flexing as you held your position, and turned your gaze toward him. “¿Quieres terminar muerto? Solo los fuertes sobreviven.” (You want to end up dead? Only the strong survive.) Your voice was firm, carrying an edge of intensity that seemed to resonate in the small space.

The muffled sounds of the Task Force members in the next room—Soap’s laughter, Gaz’s gruff banter, Price’s authoritative voice—served as a constant reminder of the world beyond your little haven, of workout.