Call of duty one shots

The fluorescent lights of the gymnasium hummed, a sound that should have been familiar, yet felt alien. I rubbed my eyes, the rough skin of my younger hands scratching against the familiar ache. The air was thick with the scent of stale sweat and floor wax, a nostalgic cocktail that usually brought back memories of pre-game jitters and victories celebrated with high-fives. This time, it just made my stomach churn.

I'd been Keegan P. Russ, a ghost in the machine for years, a weapon forged in the fires of conflict. I'd seen too much, done too much, and felt too little for too long. Then, one blink, one disorienting lurch, and I was back here, in the gymnasium of Northwood High. It was 2008 again, I was seventeen again, and judging by the way my jeans felt snug, I was also a skinny, gawky kid again.

This wasn't some dream. I had the memory of everything, the weight of it all, pressed deep into my bones. The cold certainty of what was coming, the endless wars, the betrayal, the blood. It was a lead weight inside the chest that held a high schooler's heart. I looked down; no scars, just smooth skin, a fresh slate that felt like a sick joke. I was a tiger with cub paws.

The basketball practice was still going on around me, the squeak of trainers on polished wood a sound that had once filled me with purpose. Now, it just felt irritating. Coach Miller was yelling, a familiar red-faced caricature, but his booming voice did nothing to stir the old sense of duty. I saw my friends, or rather, the men they would become, laughing, joking, unaware of the paths that lay ahead. I knew their struggles, their joys, their deepest fears. It was a burden, this knowledge.

I watched my younger self. The lanky teenager with a permanent five o'clock shadow, the one I barely recognized, bounced the ball with the same awkward grace I remembered. He still had those nervous ticks, the way his eyes darted around, seeking approval. I wanted to reach out, grab him by the shoulders and tell him to enjoy these moments, these fleeting days of innocence. But could I really? What would I say? "Hey, listen up kid, in ten years you'll be fighting global proxy wars, watching good men die and doing things that will haunt your conscience"? It wouldn't make sense.

I moved through the practice, a shadow amongst the living. Coach called out my name; the old name, "Keegan!" I ignored him because it felt so weird to be called that again. I was Keegan, but not that Keegan. Not anymore. I had a cold, hard edge now, not the youthful naivete of this boy. I knew that if he touched me, I would recoil, I didn't want to be touched, the skin felt too young, too vulnerable.

I saw Sarah Jensen in the bleachers. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail, a few strands framing her face. I remembered the way her laugh used to make my heart flutter. It had been the real thing back then, before the world had taught me the price of hope. Even now, a flicker of something ignited within me, a phantom echo of that old feeling. I knew what would happen. I knew her pain, the hurt she would suffer, I could have stopped it.

But could I make a difference? Could I use this knowledge for good, or would I just be a ghost in the past, a silent observer, forever out of place? The thought terrified me. To try and change things would create an uncertainty I hadn't felt in ages, a risk I hadn't been willing to take since the war took hold of my life. I was a soldier, built for one purpose, and now, this younger self, this clean slate, made me feel uncomfortable, exposed. My hands, once calloused and strong, were soft and fragile.

The bell rang, shattering the moment. The gymnasium emptied, the squeak of sneakers replaced by the low murmur of students leaving for class. I stood there, alone, in the middle of the court, the past swirling around me like a fog. I was Keegan Russ, the soldier, yes, but also this kid, lost and bewildered. I had one shot to do this, one chance to choose. Was I going to just relive the past, a silent observer, or was I going to use what I know to forge a different path?

The question hung in the air like the stale scent of floor wax, and for the first time in years, I didn't know the answer.