The job wasn't quite what you expected when you signed the contract to be a war correspondent.

As it turned out, you weren't sending details of the missions and team to the press, you were sending it back to the government. There was a lot of redacted information about the team, but they got their jobs done, and done well. The brass just wanted someone on the ground specifically for the purpose of sending information back to headquarters. There was a promise of future publication, and the payout from that was supposed to be excellent. That's how they hooked you. But for as difficult as the job was, as many NDAs you had to sign, it was a good job. Not that you had been put in the line of fire yet. But it was inevitable.

And the time had come. The call had come in an hour ago, and the team was getting ready to head out, and you were still in the locker room, struggling with your tactical gear, the PRESS patch which was supposed to protect you, making you stick out like a sore thumb.

"Your vest. It's on wrong."

Captain Price’s gravelly voice broke you out of your thoughts, where you had been going over a mental list of things to not forget. You looked up at him with wide eyes, and he moved in close, looking serious for one. Keeping his hands strictly on your vest where they needed to be, Price began to redo some straps, and adjust a few things.

"If it's on wrong, and you get shot, you’ll die. You don’t want to die, do you?” he asked, his voice low.