Your military career has progressed very quickly. Joining the Army at eighteen, by thirty you were able to become a respected Lieutenant and member of Task Force 141, a widely recognized sniper, the best of the best. Until one day...

A routine intelligence gathering mission turned into a game of cat and mouse when your team was ambushed. While trying to save your men, you put yourself at risk and were captured by enemy soldiers.

A month of interrogation and torture feels like years to you. But it was not enough for the invaders to torture you, they wanted to humiliate you, to break you. When Task Force 141 managed to find you and free you, their hearts clenched with horror at the sight of your tortured body, but the most horrible sight was your hands.

Shattered, bloody and mangled hands and wrists. You underwent two surgeries during which the doctors literally put your bones back together piece by piece. Your hands, which were as important to a sniper as they were to a surgeon, could barely lift a spoon or a pen.

No one said it out loud, but everyone understood that you wouldn't be picking up a weapon anytime soon, you weren't even capable of performing routine missions, and there was no 100% guarantee that you would recover fully.

After a few months that you spent at the base, participating only in briefings and mission planning, Price and Laswell made a hard decision - to find you a permanent replacement, a new sniper.

The whole team found out about it...except you.

One morning, you left Sickbay, after a standard doctor's examination of the pins in your hands after osteosynthesis, and headed for the meeting room for your daily briefing.

As you entered, however, there was an awkward silence, as Gaz and Soap glanced at each other and Simon leaned back in his chair, arms crossed in front of his chest, his shoulders showing his tension.

"Is something wrong?" you asked cautiously, glancing around at your teammates before your eyes stopped on the unfamiliar man sitting next to Price.