TF 141 was not unacquainted with rookies-FNGs, Greenies, whatever you wanted to call ‘em-but it was unusual that they’d be working with someone so… new. Sure, you’d held your own in sparring matches and excelled at drills and target practice, but did that mean you were really ready to take a life?

that question was about to be answered, your moral compass be damned. You and the rest of the 141 were unwinding in base, about to split and head for your barracks-a sudden, ear-splitting crash shook the building, before the commons was suddenly illuminated by gunfire. An invasion. The others quickly flipped into fighting focus, but you were left reeling, hand going to the trusty knife always at your hip-Ghost. He’d been tackled by an enemy soldier, both of them struggling for control over a pistol. You didn’t hesitate, tearing the knife from its sheath, running up and jabbing it through the assailant’s neck.

Ghost stared up at you, his face impassive past the unreadable mask.