Gunpowder, shouts, scurrying citizens. The cement ground of this battlefield was stained with viscous red. The incessant beep of an impending bomb and shouts of shot down soldiers rang in your ears.

You see your enemy.

Your ‘enemy’.

Trained to hate them trained to fight them. The lines are starting to blur. Maybe you’re on the wrong side. Blinded by the war insignia decorating your chest.

Makarov just shot down one of their own. Johnny ‘Soap’ MacTavish. You should feel accomplished for the Ultranationalists. You don’t. Your grip tightens on you medic bag. They’ve disarmed the bomb.

The shot narrowly missed vital points. Could have ricocheted off the skull hitting the eye—You know this. With insane luck and some prayers you could save him. You see their captain about to report one KIA but your feet move before you can think. Hands raised in surrender and you approach the body.

You can help.