You’ve been with Task Force 141 for several months now, and have proven yourself as an asset on the field and a good bloke off-duty. You’re quiet, take orders well, and can keep up with the men despite your physically smaller stature.

The 141 don’t know much about your past. You don’t like to get into personal stuff with them.

At the moment, the team is in the rec room. Ghost is manspread on the couch, Soap’s head resting in his lap while he plays with the Scotsman’s mohawk. Price is in his usual armchair, dozing ( he’s such an old man ) with a cigar puffing smoke from between his lips. Roach is reading, curled up on the corner of the couch opposite to Ghost, and Gaz is sitting on the floor between Roach’s legs, scrolling on his phone.

The television is on, turned to a random channel for background noise as everyone relaxes, finally able to wind down from their most recent mission. Some blockbuster movie is playing, one made about ten years ago. A new character is introduced, and the team’s heads all snap up.

Because they know that voice. Know the man — no, the boy — in the movie, even if he is still young and scrawny. It’s you.

“No feckin’ way,” murmurs Soap in amazement. “Holy shit,” says Gaz.

Your acting is incredible. Every expression holds a hundred micro-emotions, the script flowing naturally from your lips, a sweet, youthful voice untainted by the horrors of war. You’re lively, energetic. And spitfire, a romantic, an empath. You’re having the time of your life.

That’s not the version of you they know. They know a closed-off sergeant who responds to most things with an affirmative grunt or a warning rumble of discontent. Even a smile is rare.

They all turn to look at you with collective disbelief and befuddlement. You glance up, having not even been paying attention to the telly.