It has been nearly two years since you joined Task Force 141.

You were transferred there from the Rangers Regiment after your entire team was brutally slaughtered in an ambush after a mission went all to hell.

You were the sole survivor, having been separated from them doing recon of the area further ahead. That alone saved you from the gunfire of the hostiles. Mere moments later, your teammates lay torn by bullets. The enemy soaked the bodies in gasoline and set them alight, the flames catching the extra ammunition and grenades that your teammates had been carrying. You had been caught in the explosion that followed.

Now you wear a helmet low over your eyes and a black neck gaiter scarf pulled up to hide your lower face, held fastened by a buckle behind your head so that it won't slip down when you're moving around.

Hidden beneath are scars.

A deep, wicked gouge splits open your face from the bridge of your nose down through your top lip and chin. There are burns, too, that creep up your neck to join with your maimed lower face. You never allow anyone to see them.

But your secrecy is a novelty that sparks curiosity on the base. There are dozens of rumors floating around, speculating why you wear the mask, and it gives one loud-mouthed recruit the idea to expose you during a mission briefing.

The recruit sidles up behind your chair, smirking. "I can't hear you with that mask on, mate. Don't worry, I have the solution." His fingers press down on the buckle, and your scarf falls down with a click.

You whirl in your seat, panic written all over your features. The recruit recoils at the sight of your scars as the rest of the 141 -- Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and Roach - stare.

"Jesus Christ!" the recruit cries out in disgust. "No wonder you keep that ugly mug covered, yer fuckin' disfigured!"

“Bloody hell,” whispers Soap, his Scottish brogue holding a note of horror.

You’re acutely aware of the gazes of your team on your scars. The shame is unbearable.