Debug is a reformed cyber-terrorist with a computer engineering/coding background. After a very unpleasant experience overseas she is recruited to work for the government while trying to cope with her mental trauma and the physical scars. Through he...
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Summary: Your brother and his friends barge into your flat while you're distracted playing video games.
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The door to your flat bursts open as your brother loudly makes his way into the space, two of his 'little friends' following reluctantly but not far behind. You make a mental note to move the spare key... Again.
Maybe 'little friends' wasn't the best term to describe them... They were all absurdly enormous men who looked ridiculous standing in your wee apartment. Creating a massive wall of muscle now blocking the entryway, Soap, and Ghost having stopped just beyond the door.
The lot of them spot you from across the room huddled on a sofa sitting tailor-style, game controller in your hands. Your bewildered gaze shifts to them for a moment, eyes bright, pupils constricted. Suddenly movement erupts on the screen before you, attention snapping back instantly.
The unaware enemy crosses your path, before getting the chance to unholster their weapon you are on them. Crosshairs lock on
and you pull the trigger. A burst of bullets spraying from your P90, each making contact with the offending player's skull. Starting at the throat making a vertical line up between the eyes as you fight against the recoil, you pull the trigger once more riveting another round of bullets into their cranium.
They crumble to the ground and you are already on the move, reloading, readying yourself for the next altercation. Focus solely on the screen in front of you, and the distant sound of gunfire guiding you to your next victim. Doing your best to block out the three sets of eyes now watching intently, and the drumming of your heart.
"Oh SHIT it's been a while, didn't know you started playing again since therapy, I wanna watch you kick some ASS!" Your brother boasts loudly, making his way across the small room, hurdling over an armchair, and plopping down beside you on the couch carelessly. The sudden force ripples across the surface, rocking you both back and forth on the seat.
Thankfully the action doesn't faze you, you've gotten used to this kind of behavior from your sibling. The group watches as you ambush enemy after enemy, ducking between cover, and healing a few scrapes till the words 'YOU ARE THE CHAMPION' appear across the screen in bold white lettering.
"CHAMPION!" Your brother exclaims loudly, throwing his fist into the air. The movement once again rocking you back and forth from your position next to him. The action is more startling this time now that your focus is broken.
You haven't spoken a word the entire time, sitting rigidly in your spot on the sofa. Your body feels as though it's vibrating, coming down from an adrenaline high. You attempt to let out a held breath but it comes out shakier than desired, mentally cursing, feeling warm color pool in your cheeks.
This had been an attempt at something normal, something you used to enjoy... But the current situation brings on a wave of nausea, finding the stale air suddenly hard to cloak down. Clammy hands trembling as you maintain your grip on the controller, you needed to calm down.
Head downcast, loose hair falling like a curtain around either side of your face. Thank God for muscle memory, with a few button presses you exit the match and slap the controller into your brother's outstretched hands.
"wanted to watch you play," he grumbles lips pressing into a thin line, narrowing his eyes at you. You let out a breathy laugh, rigid shoulders slumping, a small amount of the tension lifted from the room.
"You just did, why don't you play with your friends," you say while getting up from the couch and heading into the adjacent kitchen, anxiety still bubbling in your stomach.
Soap moves to take your spot while Ghost stays near the door, silently observing as you make your tea. You take a moment to tuck your loose hair into the hood of your sweatshirt before picking up the steaming cup on the counter.
"Please knock next time," you announce, a request shot towards your brother.
Heading out of the kitchen, mug in hand, you give them a quick thumbs-up before silently disappearing behind the door on your left.
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"She used to play this game a lot, she's REALLY good, I mean you watched her play, that rampage," your brother laughs as they fumble around in the game's menu.
Half-lidded eyes study the closed door, Ghost wonders why you stopped playing, wonders if you have ever shot a gun before. None of this should matter to him, he finds the fact that he's dwelling on it to be mildly concerning.
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