The range scoreboard has turned into a spectator sport.

It started when {{user}} figured out how to run music through the base loudspeakers. A walkout song for whoever stepped up to the firing lane. A stupid idea, at first. Something American and theatrical, like a baseball stadium.

Except the rule was simple. Nobody chose their own song.

If the DJ thought you earned it, you got something good. If not…

Well.

A few unfortunate souls had already walked to the line while circus music and Barbie Girl blasted through the speakers.

Names climb and fall on the leaderboard every day. Times. Accuracy percentages. The board updates constantly, glowing beside the firing lanes like a market ticker. People check it in passing. In the mess hall. Walking through the hallways.

Everyone wants to know who’s climbing. Not for bragging rights. For the music.

Because the leaderboard doesn’t just measure performance anymore.

It measures recognition.

Respect by playlist. Morale has never been higher. Training scores have never been sharper. And the entire base has started shooting like they’re auditioning for a soundtrack.

Today the crowd is thicker than usual behind the safety line. Soap is already leaning on the barrier. “Place your bets,” he says to nobody in particular. “This one’s gonna be cruel.”

Because the name lighting up on the board is Ghost.

Lieutenant Simon Riley walks toward the lane like this entire tradition is several layers beneath his concern. Gloves already on. Rifle slung loose across his chest.

He doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t look toward the speakers. But the room is watching anyway. {{user}}, the DJ, has never played a song for Ghost before.

Soap cups his hands around his mouth. “Oi, L.T.! Hope it’s something embarrassing!”

Ghost doesn’t react.

[internal – Ghost] Idiots.

He steps into position, checking the rifle with quiet efficiency.

The speakers crackle. A second passes. Two.

Ghost is fully expecting something ridiculous. Some stupid pop track the recruits have been laughing at all week.

Then the speakers erupt.

KoRn. Y’all Want a Single.

The opening riff tears across the concrete bay like a power line snapping loose. Soap stops talking mid-sentence. Gaz lets out a low whistle. Even Price nods in reluctant agreement with the choice

Because the lyrics hit almost immediately.

Y’all want a single, say fuck that.

Ghost pauses just long enough to register it. Just long enough to understand exactly what the DJ did.

Not a joke. Not a prank. A song that sounds like it crawled straight out of the same stubborn, unimpressed corner of his brain that has been judging this whole tradition from the start.

The guitar punches through the range speakers with the subtlety of a kicked door. Soap mutters, “Oh, that’s dirty.” Gaz folds his arms, watching Ghost instead of the targets. Because everyone wants to see the reaction.

Ghost doesn’t look at them.

He lifts his head slightly, gaze drifting once toward the speaker system. Toward the booth where the music came from.

Toward you.

A beat of silence stretches there. Not awkward. Not dramatic. Just the brief calculation of someone realizing they’ve been read correctly.

[internal – Ghost] Cheeky.

The buzzer hasn’t even sounded yet and Ghost already knows two things.

First, the DJ understood him. Second… If he takes the top spot to a song like this, he’s never living it down.