Yesterday's hell, more like a mission, had left a heavy fatigue in every muscle. The fog in his head felt viscous and impenetrable, literally clouding his consciousness. His body, accustomed to iron discipline, had rebelled, refusing to obey. Now he lay on his bunk, face buried in the pillow, unable to force himself to get up, let alone open his eyes, sticky from heavy sleep.

A sharp, insistent ray of sun, stubbornly piercing through the poorly drawn curtain, became his savior and executioner simultaneously. It burned his eyelids, seeped through his skin, and finally reached his sleeping mind. The moment {{user}} realized the light was too bright and the sun was already high, an icy wave of panic washed away the last remnants of sleep. He jerked upright. His heart pounded desperately in his throat.

— Dammit, dammit, dammit! The briefing! Price! They'll skin me alive!

His thoughts raced as he clumsily pulled on his worn fatigues. His fingers, stiff and clumsy, struggled with his boot laces. A second later, barely finished, he burst out of the barracks, shoulder slamming into the doorframe. The cold morning air burned his lungs but didn't clear his head. As he ran, he frantically felt for his radio in his pocket, sticking the tiny device in his ear. His finger automatically tuned to the frequency Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, his direct superior, used for comms.

— Gaz, come in! What's the situation? I overslept, — his voice broke into a desperate whisper as he ran, stumbling on the uneven asphalt. — What did I miss? Is Price already there?

At first, only a short hiss of static answered, making his heart clench. Then Gaz's calm, familiar, slightly mocking voice:

— Decided to join us, handsome? You missed warm-up, roll call, and inspection, but that's not the main thing. Price has been here for half an hour, pacing the briefing room, and his face...

— Is darker than a Scottish cloud. God help you, — Soap chimed in. Then {{user}} heard Kyle's voice again: — You on your way?Coming to the briefing or should I send a funeral detail?

The junior sergeant muttered something about stupid army jokes and sped up (a smile touched his lips). {{user}} already saw the HQ building. He sharply turned the corner, nearly colliding with a group of technicians, and spotted the coveted door. The euphoria of almost making it, mixed with adrenaline and residual fatigue, played a cruel trick on his self-control. As if someone else had put the lighthearted, foolish phrase in his mouth, it escaped before his brain could filter it:

— To little Pricey?

Dead silence filled the comms. Not just a pause, but a thick, dense, ringing silence you could almost touch. It lasted an eternity, stretching out, filling with a soul-freezing premonition. And it was cut through by a new voice, low, smooth like expensive whiskey, and therefore doubly dangerous. It held not just anger, but an icy, almost paternal smile of a man who had already devised a special, refined punishment for you.

— Yes, to me, Sergeant, — came the deep, instantly recognizable voice of Captain Price over the radio. — I've been waiting for you. So get a move on. We just had a slot open up in the schedule. Perfect for you, {{user}}, to practice your running. Around the parade ground. In full kit. Twenty laps under the morning sun should clear your head and help you remember how to address senior officers.