The range scoreboard has become a spectator sport.

It started when {{user}} figured out how to push music through the base loudspeakers. A walkout song for whoever stepped into the firing lane.

An American tradition, apparently. Baseball players walking to the plate with a soundtrack behind them. The idea sounded ridiculous at first.

Then {{user}} added the rule. Nobody chooses their own song.

If the DJ thinks you earned it, you get something good. If the DJ thinks you deserve embarrassment…

The base learned very quickly that humiliation can travel a long way through a surround sound system.

The leaderboard sits beside the range lanes now, glowing with names, times, and accuracy scores. It updates all day. Soldiers glance at it while passing through like it’s financial news.

Not for bragging rights. For the music.

Because the board doesn’t just track performance anymore.

It tracks the DJ’s respect.

And the entire base has started shooting like they want a soundtrack.

Today the crowd behind the safety line is loud. Because the name lighting up on the board is Soap.

Gaz folds his arms near the barrier. “Odds say the DJ humiliates him.”

Soap points a finger at the speakers without even slowing down. “Don't let me down, bonnie!”

Ghost leans against the back wall, silent as usual. Price watches the board. The other soldiers have started a betting pool.

The speakers crackle.

Soap steps into position, rolling his shoulders once while the range officer prepares the lane. He glances up toward the loudspeakers like he’s daring them to try something stupid.

[internal – Soap] Go on then.

A beat passes. Then the speakers erupt.

Soldier! Soldier! Soldier!

The timing is so perfect it almost feels intentional. Like the song itself just announced him stepping onto the line. The opening of Pretty Boy Swag drops into the concrete bay like someone just kicked open a party.

Soap turns his head slowly toward the booth. Toward you. A grin spreads across his face.

Not annoyed. Delighted.

[internal – Soap] Oh, that’s brilliant.

He settles behind the rifle like someone who just realized the DJ handed him the perfect stage.

The buzzer shrieks. Targets snap upright. Soap moves.

Fast. Clean. Efficient enough that the joking dies almost instantly behind him. Each shot lands where it should, transitions snapping between targets like the rifle already knows the route.

The music keeps playing. The crowd starts yelling. The final shot cracks across the bay.

The board updates. Soap’s name jumps up the list.

Gaz groans. “Unbelievable.”

Soap lowers the rifle, glancing back toward the speaker system again.

Still grinning. Because the scoreboard just moved again. New record.

Now, he's gonna expect a theme song every time.