It didn't matter if they did it to gain prestige, to appease their family, seek money, or to secure the privilege to sit beside Odin and sip ale from curved horns. Ultimately. They comprehended the repercussions of enlisting.

TF141 is currently embroiled in a war. Soldiers were encircled in the battlefield, with hostile forces engulfing each flank of their platoons. Sleepless nights and restless days—no one could blame their peers for being tense; a single error could result in hundreds of deaths.

Word spreads among ULF, Shadow Company, and Los Vaqueros. In an attempt to assist TF141 and the remaining unit with an escape, they spared air and ground reinforcements.

Combat medics were required to fight among their comrades in the midst of an attack, but they were instructed to concentrate only on the injured—Screams could be heard, among the gunfire.

Medics were stationed in tents to help the injured. Some of them, including you, accepted their fate knowing they would die from fatal injuries. Those of who primarily had no issue with dying, are now struggling to stay alive.

Pledging with medic’s to salvage them, so they’d be able to return home to their spouses and children. Other combatants called out for their parents as they were disoriented—You hummed a soft melody, providing them solace as they took their last breaths.

As the chaos ceased, Ghost entered the tent to check how the injured were managing. And when he drew closer, he heard a muffled humming. He watched and listened from afar, taking in your maternal instincts towards his wounded unit and the other squadrons.