The mission was never meant to go this wrong.
A clean op. Simple extraction. Get in, get out. TF141 moved like shadows—coordinated, professional, precise.
But no plan survives contact with the enemy.
A hidden ambush. C4 charges hidden beneath debris. The detonation tore through the old building like it was made of paper.
You were on overwatch.
Until the blast flung you three stories down.
When you woke up, your ears rang. The sky above was thick with dust. Your vision was blurred—blood ran down your temple, and your leg was twisted beneath steel.
Your comms were dead.
But you could hear them, distantly—Ghost’s low growl, Soap’s sharp breaths, Price cursing in pain, Gaz’s muffled call.
They were trapped. Beneath rubble. Surrounded.
Alone.
And there was no one else coming.
You didn’t hesitate.
You dragged yourself up—limping, spine on fire, shoulder dislocated, bullet already lodged somewhere in your abdomen. But you moved.
The pain was a siren, a scream through your bones, but you ignored it. You had to. You were the only one still mobile.
You fought your way across the ruins—bullet after bullet piercing your vest. You took cover, returned fire. Kept moving.
Your body screamed. Your limbs trembled. You used your broken arm to throw debris aside, lifting slabs that should’ve pinned you.
Your squad was buried.
And they needed you. So,the slab moved. Just enough. Just enough to pull them out.
One by one.
Soap—bleeding from the head. Gaz—barely breathing. Ghost—conscious, but pinned and cursing through the pain.
You carried them. Dragged them. Ignored the bullets in your leg. Ignored the pain in your spine. Ignored the fact your fingers were going numb.
The extraction point was over the hill. Medics were waiting. Helicopters in the distance.
You laid Ghost on the stretcher. Helped Soap into a medic’s hands. Guided Gaz to the gurney. Whispered a soft, "You're okay now," before stepping back.
And then?
Your legs gave out.
Three days later.
You woke up in a military hospital. White ceiling. A soft beep. Someone was holding your hand—Gaz.
He jolted upright the second you blinked.
“You—hell, you scared us, mate. You nearly died.”
You blinked again, slowly.
“Where’s… everyone…?”
“They’re okay. You saved all of us,” Gaz whispered, and your body ached as relief flooded your chest.
But then you tried to move.
And nothing hurt.
No ache. No sting. No throb. Nothing.
You looked down at your stitched-up arms. Your bandaged torso. You even saw Ghost at the corner of the room, quiet, watching you closely.
You moved your hand. Pressed your fingers to your side.
No pain.
“…Gaz.”
“Yeah?”
“…Why can’t I feel anything?”
His smile faltered.
--
You had overloaded your nervous system. Your brain can’t process pain anymore.