#cod cyoa

Current “Stats”(I might reformat these some how bare with me.) Price: Respect: +3. Trust: +1. Affection: 0 Ghost: Respect: +2. Trust: 0. Affection: 0 Soap: Respect: +3. Trust: 0. Affection: 0 Gaz: Respect: +3. Trust: 0. Affection: 0

You drop your duffel mid-run, boots skidding across the churned-up dirt as you shove back through the med tent flaps. The first thing that hits you is the smell: blood, scorched fabric, chemical fumes. The second is the noise.

Shouts from the medics hit your ears first. Then the screams from the soldiers being brought in. 

Charlie is doing his best, but he’s shaking. Gloved hands frozen over a trauma kit he hasn’t opened. You push past him, eyes scanning over four stretchers already lined up, one more being dragged in. The man on the last is seizing. Another has full-body burns, bubbling beneath torn fatigues.

Your voice cuts clean through the tent.

“Clear cot two. That man’s airway takes priority—move!”

Your hands are already moving, snapping gloves on, grabbing the trauma shears from your belt holster. You bark again without looking.

“Get me saline, IV tubing, and every strip of clean gauze you can find. If you don’t have it, improvise.”

You’re kneeling beside the burn victim before anyone even breathes again. His pulse is thready, breath wet in his lungs. No medic pack. No prep. Just you, your hands, and the scattered contents of your on-hand kit.

You work fast.

The gauze is half-crusted and stiff but it’ll hold the cooling gel. The IV line is too short, so you splice two together, securing them with surgical tape and a fucking pen. Someone fumbles a tray beside you and you let them bounce off your shoulder. You keep working. You keep breathing.

…

Later—maybe minutes, maybe an hour, long enough that the burn victim has long since been covered in bandages, you don’t know, you’ve lost the clock—someone calls your name.

You glance up. Soap, streaked with dust and blood that’s not his, hauls in a stretcher with Price. Between them, a kid no older than twenty lies limp, chest rising shallow beneath torn armor.

You nod once. “Table four. Chest wound. Pressure bandage, north kit bin—Soap, you’ve got this?”

“Aye, Doc.”

You don’t pause to watch.

At some point, Ghost appears like smoke—no announcement. Just the thud of a supply crate hitting the ground near your elbow.

“Bandages,” he says, opening the box.

You nod, eyes still on the sutures you’re threading. By the time you look again, he’s gone.

You don’t stop. Not even when your hands start to cramp. Not when your shirt clings to you with sweat and dried blood. Not when Charlie starts following your orders without waiting to be told.

You take a drink when he brings you water and keep moving. You do the one thing you can. The thing that brings you around the globe and back again. You just hold the line.

When it’s finally over—or at least not critical—you’re left standing in the hum of fluorescent lights, breathing through your mouth because your nose can’t take the smell anymore.

You look down at your hands, aching, a little crusted with blood, and still steady.

…

You step out of the med tent like you’re surfacing from underwater into the rays of sunshine on a beige and tan sea.

The air outside is still warm, still full of grit, but it’s wide open. Most importantly, quiet. Quiet enough that you can hear the ringing in your own ears. A few shouts echo down near the supply trucks, and someone’s trying to fix a radio with too much cursing and not enough finesse, but it’s background now.

You find a spot by the concrete barriers, just outside the wash line, and drop to a crouch, then flop onto your ass. Your back hits an already sun-warmed stone. Your knees crack.

Your gloves are off. Your hands are sticky with sweat and dried iodine. You reach for your water bottle—lukewarm and half-empty—and drink like it’s the first breath of your life.

It burns going down, but the relief hit’s your throat and lungs like a breeze.

You sit in it for a minute and let your pulse catch up, let your brain settle. You don’t think about the soldier with the collapsed lung or the girl with the burns on her arms or the fact that, by now, your evac bird is halfway to the next staging point.

You don’t think at all.

“Was starting to think you’d collapsed somewhere.”

The voice is light. Scottish.

You tilt your head just enough to see Soap, arms folded, leaning on the barrier beside you.

He doesn’t look like he’s checking on you. He just… is here. His hair’s matted, forehead sunburned along the edge of his mohawk, and his sleeves are still rolled to the elbows like he hasn’t had the chance to even glance at a sink.

He offers a water bottle unopened.

You take it without a word, twist the cap, sip slow.

He waits, then quietly, “‘eard you stitched a guy back together with two fingers and yer willpower.”

You snort.

“No’ bad for someone we all almost let leave.”

That earns a real smile, if a tired one. You shake your head, thumb brushing the ridge of the cap in your hands.

“Honestly,” you say, voice rough, “I thought I was leaving.”

Soap hums. “Still could’ve. No one would’ve blamed you.”

You look up at him then.

He means it. There’s no accusation in it. No judgment. Just a simple, human truth, handed to you like a thread he’s letting you choose whether or not to pick up.

He takes a swig of his own water and watches the sunrise with you for a moment, the golden light catching on the edges of the dust in his hair, the sweat drying slow on his skin. His silhouette glows in the brightening rays, warm and still for once.

He’s young, you realize.

Not green, not untested, but younger than the rest of his team at least. His edges aren’t worn smooth like Price’s. He’s got different type of youth about him than Gaz. He hasn’t pulled the shutters tight like Ghost. There's something in his expression, quiet now, that still holds a flicker of wonder, quick witted intelligence, thoughts that bounce from one to the next. And something close to hope.

His eyes catch yours, and there’s no bravado in them. Just a question, “so.. why did you stay?"

*a/n: THIS INTERACTION MAINLY AFFECTS SOAP HOWEVER HE WILL REPORT BACK TO THE TEAM. (gossip whore who has found himself a new little birdie to be interested in) also, don't worry, we'll have more moments with all the boys that are like this. softer and such.

sorry for the delay, got sick. Hopefully will be moving to my new place this weekend. I'll try to write while I'm riding in the vehicle tho. hopefully no more delays, but housing, job (still not having an offer letter), and literally going into the classroom to teach in two weeks, is stressing me out.

Rn the writing struggle is figuring out a fluid way to get Reader back to home, but also somehow a part of the team. I'm stuck between the slow burn route with more in between things???? or just a time jump to "woah hey here's your offer to the 141 " (aka the lazy/quick to the thick of it route)

Soap doesn’t respond right away. He’s quiet, still leaning against the barrier, his gaze tracking the edge of the horizon where the light’s just beginning to spill into full morning. It paints everything in soft gold and sharp edges, his cheekbone catching a slant of sun, the sweat dark at his collar, the smallest crease between his brows as he lets the words settle.

Then he exhales, slow and measured, and says, softly, “Yeah. That tracks.”

He looks over at you again. The corner of his mouth lifts. It's not a grin, just something tired and real.

“S’good thing ya didn’t. That kid with the collapsed lung? He’s still breathin' because of you. We saw it.”

You don’t reply. There’s no need.

He taps the heel of his boot against the concrete once, then rolls his shoulders and pushes upright.

“Get some rest, yeah?” His tone is easy again, but it’s laced with something gentler now, respect or maybe gratitude. “Or at least try. We’ll see ya 'round.”

...

You do leave. Eventually.

Just not the way you planned.

It takes two more days before a bird finally has room for you. By then, the med tent is stable, supplies restocked, and the triage line quiet. Soap and his mates have gone on their own, apparently not in the same waiting line as you.

The morning you go, there’s no ceremony. No send-off. Just a radio handoff and a tired nod from the base commander. You’re not on any official manifest. No one seems quite sure where to put you. Quite frankly, you don't mind, you just want to go home.

Your flight back is half-cargo, half-personnel. You share the cramped cabin with three Marines who don’t speak and a pile of crates marked MEDICAL. The hum of the engines sinks into your bones. You drift in and out of sleep with your knees pressed to your bag, the air too dry and the ache in your hands finally catching up to you.

By the time you step off the second transport and into the city, the sky’s already turning pink again.

You get home just before dusk, five days after you were originally supposed to leave.

It’s a flat you barely lived in, a crash space, functional, small. It's clean enough, just a layer of dust after your time away. The kind of place you keep not because you love it.

You dump your bag inside the door and don’t touch it again.

The fridge has expired milk and a bruised apple. You toss both.

The couch is where you end up, still damp from a shower, and a hot one at that, hair curling at the nape of your neck, wrapped in a towel you’d forgotten you owned. The quiet is almost too loud.

Your phone pings twice from the counter, logistics emails.

Everything's delayed or shuffled. Your next contract postponed indefinitely, thanks in no small part to your decision to stay and help at the base. There’s a vague message from your coordinator about “operational flexibility” and “emergency adjustments.”

You scroll through the words and feel none of them stick.

You sit there, blinking at nothing, and realize you don’t know what you’re supposed to do next.

The thing is: you made the right call. You know you did. But now your schedule is messed up. The money from this gig... well it's not like you get paid overtime. And you've got to make this last at least a week longer than you previously anticipated.

You're lucky, not tight for money by any means. You live pretty frugally, rent is the most expensive thing and it's not like you're paying much on your utilities. Food is normally provided when you're on contracts. Still, the not knowing makes you wary.

Something else itches at you though. What Soap said... "We'll see ya 'round."

Logically, you know he was being friendly. The chances of you actually seeing his scruffy mohawk, or the big boy with the skull mask, or the pretty one with the baseball cap, or the gruff, bearded captain again is far less than likely.

But still... you can't help but be curious. You’ve been pulled into a different orbit now. One that makes you feel like a little rover approaching a different planet. You just want a look.

You wrap the towel tighter around your shoulders. Drink a glass of tap water. Let the city hum outside your window while your heartbeat catches up.

You don’t sleep that night. You try. You try everything.

The couch is lumpy, the sheets on your bed smell too clean, and every time you close your eyes, you see burnt skin, blown pupils, and the thump-thump-thump of a heart just barely holding.

You’d saved him. You’d saved a lot of them.

You take a deep breath in. Exhale.

So why does it still feel like something’s unfinished?

You turn over.

Again.

And again.

Eventually, the light starts to shift, the kind of grey that tells you it’s almost morning but not quite. You’re staring at the ceiling, jaw tense, when your phone buzzes.

Unknown number.

You're fingers move before your mind. You answer on the second ring. “Yeah?”

There’s a pause before the voice comes, low and familiar.

“This is Captain Price. Didn’t wake you, did I?”

Your heart hammers once. It takes a full two seconds for your brain to catch up with who you're actually talking to.

“Not really,” you say, sitting up. “Wasn’t asleep.”

His voice is quieter than usual, measured. “We’ve got something.” He doesn’t waste time. “Operators in the field. Found dead days after missions. No warning signs. No injuries. No stress markers.”

You turn and put your feet on the ground as he speaks.

“Thought it was random. Bad luck. Stress. But one of the names came up last night.” A pause. “Someone you stabilized. One of the convoy injured.”

You go still. “I remember every one of them,” you say. “Which one, Captain?”

"Chest wound," he pauses, there's a mumbling you can't hear on the other end. "The one Soap helped with."

"He was alive. I checked him. He was sitting up the day I left."

“I believe you,” Price says, and somehow, you can tell he means it.

You wait, heart thudding now, quiet and hard.

“We want you to come in. Confirm what you remember. Just a consult.”

His voice is careful, and you don't know if he's hiding something or just trying not to scare you off.

You glance at the clock. 5:42 AM.

“Alright,” you say slowly. “You need me to come to base?”

“No,” Price says. “There’s a car outside your building.”

You’re already standing by the time he finishes. You step to the window, push the curtain aside.

A black SUV waits across the street, engine off, windows tinted. Government-issue quiet.

“Who?” you ask, already reaching for your boots.

"A good friend of mine, CIA. She'll get ya to us."

"Ever heard of stranger danger, Captain?"

“Danger, yes, just not to you. Not now at least.”

And then, before you can respond, “You sure you’re ready to come back in?”

Your fingers still at the laces.

You think of the kid on the table. The blood. The way his chest rose and fell. Alive. You think of how quiet the flat feels. And nothing for at least a week.

“I wasn’t asleep anyway,” you murmur.

And you hang up.

...

The SUV door opens before you even get close.

A woman steps out, blonde hair up, bangs framing her face. No visible weapons, unless you count the coffee in her hand. She glances up as you slide in, offers a nod.

"Kate Laswell. Thanks for coming."

You shut the door and she sits behind the wheel. The car pulls away, smooth and silent.

“Sorry for the short notice,” she says, not sounding particularly sorry.

“I was awake,” you murmur. “Price mentioned you're CIA?"

"Mmm," she hums, taking another sip of coffee. "Just flew in, John asked me to pick you up on the way."

"You don't sound too enthusiastic."

Kate stops at an intersection and takes the second to look over at you. Her glance is quick, and it wouldn't be so eerie if you didn't know she probably knows just as much about you as you do.

And she drives again as the realization sets in. Price and his team probably know just as much too. Hell he called your phone. It's not like he got that from your talk. CIA and a random SAS unit and whatever the fuck they get up to.

You watch the city blur past, half-lit in early grey. Kate must see or sense your mind trying to figure it out, so she breaks the silence.

“He died two days ago,” she says. “Internal collapse. Sudden onset organ failure. No trauma. No visible cause.”

“That’s not how he looked when I left,” you say.

Kate nods like she expected that answer.

“We ran tox screens. Negative. Vitals were normal. We even cleared him for light duty.” A beat. “Then he collapsed in the showers. Never got back up.”

You exhale through your nose. Sit with that for a second.

She taps the steering wheel. “Price remembered your work. Asked for your notes. Said you were solid under pressure.”

“He say that exactly?” you ask, glancing at her.

She allows the smallest smile. “He grunted it.”

You lean back against the seat, heart thudding harder than you’d like. “What are you thinking? Poison?”

Kate doesn’t answer right away. She studies you again.

"No evidence of it in our victims. But, yeah, that's my guess. That or he was actually messed up that bad."

"No. He wasn't."

She sighs, takes another sip of coffee.

...

You arrive at a secure, anonymous site hours away after a very quiet car ride. It's military on the outside, hush-hush R&D on the inside. Nothing with insignia. Everything with locked doors and personnel you’ve never seen before.

Kate walks you in herself and hands you a clearance badge.

The hallway smells like cold metal and recycled air.

You hear them before you see them: Soap’s voice first, mid-rant about someone losing a coffee mug, followed by a lower, sharp reply. Ghost, unmistakably.

Then Price’s voice.

You round the corner and they’re there.

Soap’s mid-sentence when he sees you.

“—and it wasn’t even mine, it was—oh. Shit.” He smiles. "Hi, Doc."

Ghost leans back against the far wall, arms crossed, still and sharp. Price stands at the table, looking over a briefing file, but you know he clocked you the moment the door opened. Gaz meets your gaze and gives a short nod and a small smile, subtle, but there.

You meet all of their eyes, just once.

Current “Stats” (I might reformat these some how bare with me.) Price: Respect: +2. Trust: +1. Affection: 0 Ghost: Respect: +1. Trust: 0. Affection: 0 Soap: Respect: +1. Trust: 0. Affection: 0 Gaz: Respect: +1. Trust: 0. Affection: 0

You smell blood before you see it. Always do. Even after years, the copper tang clings to the back of your throat, thick and sour beneath the sharper bite of antiseptic. It's damn near alchemy, the way it mixes with the heat—dusty air too dry to hold anything but heatstroke and war.

The triage tent buzzes around you like a disturbed hive. Someone's shouting for saline. Another’s trying to radio in an evac bird that’s already twenty minutes late. You don't flinch when a stretcher barrels past your elbow, the kid on it screaming in a language you don’t know. You just wipe your hands, reset your tray, and wave in the next body.

You're good at this. Too good. Which is exactly why you're here.

You’re not enlisted. You never have been. No branch. No rank. Just a name, a certification list longer than most military files, and a reputation built in the back corners of trauma tents from Haiti to Helmand. You’ve taught medics who’ve seen more gunfights than you ever will, but you’ve seen more blood and what happens after it.

Your contract says you’re here to "assist stabilization efforts." Which is a polite way of saying: when things get ugly, you’re one of the first lined up.

And today? Things are ugly.

You’re on your last rotation. Three more hours and your ride out lifts off. You’ve already packed your bags, stripped your cot, folded your spare scrubs. One last shift, then back to wherever the hell isn’t here.

You don’t even get through the first hour without another shout.

“Incoming!” someone barks outside.

The flap of the tent gets thrown open, the canvas catching a gust of hot air and sweat.

You glance up mid-wipe, blood still tacky on your gloves, expecting another group of shaken infantry, dust in their teeth and panic behind their eyes.

That’s not exactly what you get.

The one at the front moves with command in his spine, broad shoulders under a battered boonie hat, jaw set hard beneath the gray of a salt-and-pepper beard. He sweeps the hat off as he enters—respectful or just overheating, you’re not sure—but the move’s practiced.

Captain, probably, or at least the team leader, you think instantly. 

Behind him comes a wall of a man, face entirely obscured by a black balaclava and a skull-plate mask. His hands are free, but the way he scans the room has the same weight as a drawn weapon.

You feel the other medic tense beside you.

Then comes the mohawk. Brighter than the sun off sand, and half-carrying a fourth man— sharp-eyed even through pain. His arm is slung around Mohawk’s shoulders, one leg dragging slightly, boot scuffed and gait off. Their uniforms are marked with SAS tags

You spot the damage immediately: deep burn trailing from knee to ankle, the skin angry and blistered, fabric melted into it. Not catastrophic. Not life-threatening. But bad. Probably hurts like hell, and if it’s not cleaned right, it’ll take more than skin with it.

They’re not shouting. Not panicking. This group doesn’t move like the usual chaos you get through here. They’re tight, watching eyes taking in the room quicker than you can take in them.

The captain zeroes in on you almost instantly.

"Medic?"

You nod once. “Table three’s clean. Let’s go.”

Mohawk eases his teammate onto the cot while you flick open the trauma scissors. The injured one’s got his jaw clenched, hard, breathing like he’s counting each one.

“Name?” you ask as you cut away the ruined pant leg.

“Gaz,” he grits. “You gonna ask for dinner after, too?”

You smile, for him, watching where your fingers move around the fabric and his wound. “Only if you don’t scream.”

His answer is a hiss as the fabric pulls back from the worst of it.

Behind you, the masked man shifts, watching half over your shoulder like he’s measuring your hands against his expectations.

The captain steps beside him. “You’ve got it handled?”

You don’t look up. “He’ll be fine, it’ll take a day or two to get weight back on it, a few weeks to heal completely.”

You don’t waste time. The burn’s clean enough that the damage is visible, but dirty enough to make you wince. Melted threads, dust caked under the blistering edges. He’s lucky it didn’t go deeper, or longer.

“Alright, Gaz,” you say, voice steady, with a half smile. “This is gonna suck.”

“‘M already feeling that, Doc.”

You hum in acknowledgement as you reach for a small syringe, drawing from the pain med stash on the tray beside you.

“This’ll dull it a bit. You’ll still feel me cleaning the wound, but you won’t be kicking me in the ribs over it.”

Mohawk—Soap, you’ve learned through his and Gaz’s bantering—hovering nearby, flashes a grin. “No promises. He’s a kicker on a good day.”

Gaz shoots him a glare, jaw tight. “Just for you, mate.”

You smirk at that. “Sounds like I should stand behind you while I work.”

Soap lets out a low whistle. “You hear that, Gaz? Already got you on your back and making threats.”

Gaz groans. “You’re the worst.”

The laughter that follows is quiet and brief, but effective. Tension bleeds off in the way Gaz unclenches his fists, lets his head fall back against the cot.

The injection goes in smooth, practiced. You wait a beat, watch his pupils, the way his shoulders begin to settle, before you get to work cleaning the burn. It’s not the worst you’ve seen, not by a long shot, but it’s fresh and ugly and you take your time with it.

Behind you, Soap stops fidgeting. Skull mask, you note without turning, still hasn’t moved from his silent post nearby.

You finish the wrap clean and tight, check Gaz’s pulse, and nod, “You’ll live.”

He cracks one eye. “Good. ‘Cause I’ve got bets riding on me.”

You chuckle at him. “Then I recommend not getting hit again until the skin grows back.”

You pull your gloves off with a snap, tossing them into the waste bin as you move to wash up at the basin. That’s when you feel the eyes on you again, and they’re not the curious kind.

The older man, the one who’d entered first, steps up beside you. His presence is more than size, it’s weighted like he knows or needs to know.

“You taught that NATO triage course, didn’t you?” he asks.

You blink, half-turning, more than a little surprised. “Frankfurt. That was… two years ago.”

He nods once, thoughtful. “You ran a lesson on hemorrhage control using a belt, a pen, and a broken arm.”

You raise your brows. “Wasn’t supposed to be broken when we started.”

A smile, brief and wry, tugs at the corner of his mouth. He offers a hand. “Captain Price.”

You take it. “Well. Look at that. Someone was paying attention.”

…

You’ve got one hour left. Maybe less. It’s almost peaceful—if you ignore the fact that half the supplies are running low and someone keeps mislabeling a crate.

Gaz is on cot five, leg propped, burn neatly bandaged thanks to your earlier miracle work. He’s pretending to rest. Every few minutes he adjusts, glancing at the others like he’s missing something by lying still.

You notice. You don’t comment… yet.

Ghost is perched near the tent’s open flap, hunched slightly with his elbows on his knees, mask gleaming faintly in the filtered sun. Soap’s fiddling with a combat knife at the corner of your workspace, flipping it between his fingers with a little too much idle energy for someone who promised to behave. Price had stepped out nearly 20 minutes ago to make a call.

You’re at the basin, rinsing your hands again. You’ve already cleaned up twice, but old habits are hard to break, and you don’t do idle very well.

“Rest, Sergeant,” you call, not turning around. “Sleep’ll help with recovery. As I hope you know.”

Gaz groans softly. “I am resting.”

“He’s resting his mouth more than anything,” Soap mutters.

“That so?” Gaz sits up more, eyeing him. “Says the guy who hasn’t shut up for fifteen minutes.”

“Better than sitting here in complete silence,” Soap retorts, then glances at Ghost. “No offense, LT.”

Ghost shrugs, casual. “None taken. Silence makes it easier to hear you fucking up.”

That gets a soft laugh out of Gaz, and Soap grins. You glance back and catch it. The way all three of them occupy the same space but in very different ways. All a little gruff at the edges, as you’d expect, but chaotic in their own ways.

“Alright then,” Soap announces, suddenly louder. “Settle a debate.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I’m leaving in less than an hour. You sure you want to start one?”

“Exactly why you're a perfect tiebreaker.” He leans on the table, knife finally stilled. “We’ve been arguing about sandwiches.”

You blink. “Of course you have.”

“It’s important,” Gaz insists, propping himself up on one elbow.

“Life or death,” Soap adds dramatically.

Ghost huffs, his voice is dry: “It’s not.”

“Which one’s better in the field?” Soap says, ignoring him. “PB&J or chicken salad?”

You pause. The question is absurd… or irrelevant at most… but they’re serious. Or as serious as three operators getting bored in a tent can be.

“Chicken salad spoils faster,” you reply evenly. “Especially if you’re somewhere hot.”

Soap snaps his fingers. “Thank you.”

“But,” you continue, “PB&J attracts ants. Ask me how I know.”

Ghost, without missing a beat: “You taste-tested one?”

“Lived through the aftermath,” you mutter.

That gets a real laugh from Gaz and a low, amused huff from Ghost. Soap leans back, only a little dissatisfied with your refusal to choose.

…

The sun is setting, but it’s high enough to lather everything in gold. Everything’s quieter now, except for the cicadas and bugs coming out for the start of their night.

You’ve already said your goodbyes. Soap gave you a two-finger salute and a grin like you’d just passed inspection. Gaz nodded, thanking you more than once. Ghost offered a nod and a small, “be safe.” And Price… he shook your hand again and said thank you. That’s about as glowing as it gets.

You don’t ask what they’re doing out here. You know better. You’ve worked enough overlapping ops to smell classified six clicks away.

Your pack is heavy but familiar slung over one shoulder. Your med kit’s zipped. Every damn thing you own in this stretch of land fits into one olive drab duffel. You’re walking toward the helo when the sound starts.

Engines. Loud ones. Spinning tires kicking up sand.

Then shouts as the base is waking up.

You sit on the bench just as the lead transport truck comes barreling into the lot, metal creaking, a medic already halfway out of the passenger side waving for help.

Another truck follows. Then a third. The convoy’s battered, scorched, and whatever's in the back of those trucks is bleeding.

One of the other medics, a young man named Charlie, face smeared with sweat and dried something, runs after you.

“Hey—hey, please!” he calls. “I know you’re rotating out, I know, but this group—there was a dirty bomb, we think. We don’t have enough hands, and you're—”

He doesn't finish as he hunches over, catching his breath.

You glance towards the pilot, and she watches you. The bird is already starting its spin-up. Ten minutes and it’s gone. You could be in the air. Out. Done. 

You’ve met your obligation. You’ve got more work in a week. You should go home, rest.

You look at the trucks.

You see arms dangling off stretchers. Their burned gear. People moving in controlled chaos.

One of the wounded is trying to sit up, teeth gritted, body heaving—and they don’t have enough people to catch him before he falls.

The younger medic looks at you with wide, helpless eyes. “Please. I've—I've gotta go back—"

*the leaving option does not end the story lmao. no you don't get to know the direct consequences of your actions psh.

A/n: Okay. Here it is... I... have opinions on how it looks but... eh for now. A two headed, pretty simple choice to start us off. Don't worry, it will get harder as we go on. Gotta start somewhere though, right?

Mil Action: You’re embedded with 141—intel specialist, medic, tech support, etc. (we'll vote)—and everything goes to hell. High stakes, shootouts, betrayals, tactical flirting. (most developed idea right now.)

Dating Sim: You just got stationed at a base with four very different men. Will you fall for the soft one, the grumpy one, the flirt, or the mystery man? A combo? Or all four? Flirting, jealousy, some action, drama.

Fantasy AU: (least developed idea ngl, i've never played dnd more than two sessions this would be diff for me.) You’re a healer/mage/thief/royalty/etc. and end up on a quest with a band of dangerous but hot mercs. 141 but make it swords, magic, and dragons.

Apocalyptic: Zombies, radiation, or just societal collapse and the 141 is your team of survivors, and you have to make choices to keep everyone (yourself included) alive.

Supernatural: Ghost isn’t just a name, he might actually be a ghost. Or a demon. Or a cursed soldier. You’re on a team hunting monsters, and maybe you’re not quite normal either. idk

Time Loop: You keep waking up to the same mission. Something’s wrong. Can you trust the team? Can you escape? (this idea came to me in a nap dream a day ago.)

Regency: You’re a noble, knight, or spy drawn into a tangle of court politics and secret passions. Ghost is a disgraced general. Soap is too charming. Price knows more than he says. (Dating Sim but Regency/loyalty)

Sci-fi: You’re on a crew exploring deep space, caught between military conflict and alien threats. Ghost is the brooding pilot (KIDDING, it's Nik, or not, give G some credit). Price is the commander. Soap’s got cybernetics. Gaz is the weapons expert. (again lowkey dating sim but way more intense/actiony)