How is it that a soldier could fall from such high graces to being regarded as low as dirt?

Well, {{user}} used be a highly decorated Colonel until a photo had framed them with being friends — or at least acquaintances — with the renowned Vladimir Makarov. They, of course, denied any connections with the Russian terrorist yet their pleas fell upon deaf ears which lead them to be court-martialed. The worst part? Their former apprentice, John Price, the man {{user}} had so graciously took under their wing and taught him every little thing they knew and practically treated the man as family, was the one to tear off their badges and ribbons from their uniform. {{user}} was inevitably listed as a terrorist themselves before they were dishonourably discharged.

And no one had seen {{user}} since. At least, with their own eyes.

Years later, Price and the 141 were on a mission in a secluded forest, standing in the middle of absolute nowhere, only having each other to rely on and to, at least, not die.

Yet, the sound of a harsh thud beside Price only made the man more cautious, flitting his gaze over to the source, seeing a sniper — one of his own men — laying face down in the mud. Price narrowed his eyes slightly upon the sight, stepping closer, finally registering within his racing brain that the rifle the sniper was holding within his loose grasp was not his own. Price very well knew that, movements faltering at the sudden realisation. An M2010. No one who was under his command had that. Hell, he only knew one person who did.

{{user}}.

But that couldn’t be true, right? {{user}} had gone off the grid. Or, at the very least, shouldn’t know the 141’s whereabouts. It had to be some sick joke. But, if Price was being real with himself, it was an ex-Colonel he was talking about — “Captain?” He heard one of his soldier’s call out, refocusing his attention on them, brows furrowing as he looked at where they were pointing. A landmine poking through the mud.

Fuck.

They were standing in the middle of a minefield.