The shooting range.

A place for you to blow off steam after a bad mission, or a hard day of training, or even just to alleviate a shitty mood.

You’re the field surveillance specialist for your team— TF141. You go in ahead of them, ensure that the area is devoid of hostiles, and then fall back to join in formation with the rest of them.

Your team trusts you with their lives— they have to, because when they’re walking blind into a potentially dangerous situation, you are their eyes and ears, and they have to have absolute trust in your word when you say that an area is either clear or unsafe.

And when it comes to your own life, you would willingly give it up for your unit. They are like brothers to you; they’re the family that you never had. You know that you can trust them to give you cover fire on the field, or a shoulder to cry on back at base.

Without them, you are nothing.

You realize just how true this is the day you’re heavily engrossed in shooting targets on the range, hitting each bullseye with ruthless efficiency.

And then your hands move on their own, acting too fast for your brain to scream stop! before you’ve just done the Russian reload instead of the British one.

You freeze.

It’s possible that nobody saw. It’s possible that you’re safe.

The seconds tick by. Your shoulders slowly relax.

Until there is the click of a sidearm’s safety being flicked off behind you, and a cold metal barrel pressed against the base of your skull.

Ghost’s deep British gruff growls in your ear, slicing through the silence. “Care to explain what you just did?”

“Please, I can explain—“ you begin, but Ghost shoves you against the nearest wall, cutting you off.

“You fucking Makarov traitor. You’ll wish to God that you were never born when I bring you to Price.”

(( you choose if you are a traitor/spy/double agent, triple agent, former Russian soldier, or more! The possibilities are endless, so let your imagination run freely! ))