Call of duty one shots

The first thing I noticed was the silence. The ringing in my ears, the constant background hum of the comms, the distant chatter of the squad – all gone. Just pure, unadulterated quiet. I was used to noise, to the grit and grind of conflict. Silence was supposed to be a good thing, a brief reprieve. Instead, it felt…wrong.

I pushed myself up, groaning at a weird stiffness in my lower back, and that's when I saw it. Not a shadow, not a trick of the light, but the definite curve of…well, boobs. Not my boobs. Not any man's boobs. I stared, dumbfounded, at the unfamiliar landscape beneath my t-shirt, then down at my hands. Smaller. More delicate. No callouses, no dirt under the nails. Panic flared in my chest, a cold, sharp spike.

I scrambled out of bed, stumbling towards the mirror. My reflection seemed to recoil at the sight of me. Long, dark hair framed a face that was both familiar and jarringly different. My jawline was softer, my features more…refined. My eyes, the same icy blue I'd always known, seemed impossibly wide, almost lost in the unfamiliar landscape of my own face. I reached up, touching my cheek, the skin smooth and soft instead of the rough texture I knew so well.

I was a girl. Somehow, inexplicably, I was a girl.

I didn't understand. One minute I was in my bunk, the next...this. Had I been drugged? Was this some insane op, some fucked up psychological experiment? I racked my brain, trying to recall the past day, the past week, anything that could explain this nightmare. I got nothing. Just blank, frustrating nothing.

The first few days were a blur of panicked denial and clumsy attempts at understanding. I was used to the weight of my gear, the feel of a weapon in my hand. Now, I felt fragile, exposed. My clothes, baggy and ill-fitting, felt like a constant reminder of my altered state. I learned quickly, painfully, that my usual gruff demeanor, my habit of snapping out orders, wasn't appreciated by the people around me. They looked at me like I was crazy, or worse, like I was a weakling.

The biggest challenge was the physical stuff. My body felt different, moved differently. Every step was a conscious effort, a careful choreography to avoid looking like a newborn calf. Simple things like walking down stairs, or even picking up a heavy object, were a struggle. I was clumsy, hesitant, a shell of the soldier I'd been.

I had to figure out how to adjust, and fast. My first task was figuring out clothes. Jeans, okay, those were doable. But the variety of tops, the strange shapes and frills…it was a minefield. I settled for the flattest, most neutral options I could find. Hair was a disaster. My military buzz cut was gone, replaced by this long, unruly mane that got in my face constantly. I learned to tie it back, clumsily, the elastic band feeling foreign against my hair.

I found myself avoiding the base, my usual stomping ground. I couldn't face the questions, the stares, the pity. Instead, I spent most of my time in my room, trying to figure out what the hell had happened to me. I practiced my new voice, which was higher, softer, almost unrecognizable. It felt like wearing someone else's skin, someone else's voice.

The hardest part was the loneliness. I missed the banter with the guys, the shared experience of danger, the sense of belonging. I was adrift, a stranger in a body I didn't understand. Even the smallest interactions, like ordering food at the canteen, felt like a minefield. I had to learn to speak differently, to move differently, to just be differently.

I started reading, a habit I'd always disdained. Books on history, on psychology, anything that might offer a clue. I even – and I cringe even thinking about it – started watching cheesy rom-coms on the base's lounge TV. I hated them, but they gave me a glimpse into how women interacted, how they moved, how they talked. It was a crash course in a world I'd never paid any attention to.

One night, about two weeks in, a new recruit, a young, fresh-faced kid named Jake, caught me staring at my reflection. He'd seen me around, moving like a ghost, and maybe sensed my distress. He didn't ask questions, just sat down next to me.

"Rough day?" he said, his voice gentle, not pitying.

I looked at him, surprised. "Every day's a rough day," I muttered, the unfamiliar voice grating on my nerves.

He smiled, a genuine smile, then pointed at a book I had been holding. "Reading 'The Art of War'? Bit of a change from the usual," he teased.

And then, right there, on the floor of my room, surrounded by books and the ghosts of my old life, we talked. He didn't ask about the change, didn't pry, just listened. For the first time, I felt a sliver of connection, a sense of understanding. Maybe, just maybe, I wasn't entirely alone in this.

The month wore on, and slowly, almost imperceptibly, things began to change. I wasn't "Keegan", not anymore. I was… something new. I didn't know if was permanent or another twisted joke of fate, but I was more…aware. Aware of my body, of my emotions, of the world around me in a way I had never been before. I was still lost, still confused, but I was learning. One clumsy step, one breath, one hesitant conversation at a time. As the month drew to a close I looked in the mirror again, my eyes now a mirror of resilience not just confusion. I was a soldier, still. Just, maybe, a different kind of soldier than I used to be. But one thing I was sure of, whatever this was, I needed to embrace it, and not let it break me. I had earned that much, even if I didn't know why.

The end of the month approached, and I was left with more questions than answers but as I waited for the unpredictable to happen again, I was prepared for the unexpected and not broken by the temporary.