Call of duty one shots

The world swam back into focus, a nauseating kaleidoscope of blurry colors. My head throbbed like a drum solo played by an angry gorilla. I tried to sit up, and a groan – not my usual gruff, gravelly groan – escaped my lips. It was higher, softer...wrong.

I looked down. Instead of the familiar olive drab of my tactical gear, I saw… curves. Fabric clung where it shouldn't. I scrambled back, my hand flying to my chest. There, where hardened muscle and scars should be, were… well, definitely not hardened muscle and scars. Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the lingering fog in my brain.

I was… I was a woman.

How? Why? I racked my brain, clawing through the recent missions, the firefights, the betrayals. Nothing, absolutely nothing, even remotely explained this bizarre metamorphosis. It was like waking up in a different life, a life that had been swapped out when I wasn't looking.

I stumbled to the nearest reflective surface, a dusty mirror hanging on the wall of what looked like a cheap motel room. Staring back was a stranger. Long, dark hair framed a face that was… undeniably mine, but softer now, with wider eyes and delicate features. I touched my cheek, the skin smooth and unfamiliar. This wasn't some elaborate hallucination. This was my new, infuriating reality.

I looked at myself again. Okay, calm down Price. Now what? As far as I know, nobody knows that it's me. Which is a good thing I guess.

The next few hours were a blur of panicked internal monologues, frantic Googling (seriously, "sudden and unexplained gender transformation" yielded nothing useful), and a whole lot of bewilderment. I discovered things that were both completely foreign and oddly intuitive. Bra? What the hell is a bra? And why does it feel so… constricting? I found clothes that were clearly meant for someone with my new physique. I felt like a kid wearing clothes that were ten times too big.

The first few days were a minefield of awkward interactions. My voice, still trying to adjust, betrayed me at every turn. I flinched when people called me "ma'am" or "miss." I nearly choked when some dude at the gas station tried to flirt with me. I navigated the new world like a tank on a trampoline, lumbering and clumsy.

But as the days turned into weeks, my survival instincts, honed by years in the field, kicked in. I started to observe. I paid attention to how other women moved, spoke, held themselves. I practiced my voice in the privacy of my motel room, forcing it to be softer, less gruff. I learned to walk without the clunky gait that had always been my trademark.

I even started to… adapt. Okay, maybe that's a strong word but I learned to put on makeup to make me look a bit more like your normal women would but still kept my tough look to it so I look as intimidating as ever. It was… weird. I kept wanting to run back to training to figure the hell out of this new body.

I learned about periods, a biological nightmare I hadn't even considered. Let's just say that it was nothing comparing to a 30 men ambush.

I was still Price, deep down, still carrying the weight of my past, the memories of lost missions and fallen comrades. But now I had this new layer, this feminine façade that was both baffling and strangely liberating. I started to see the world in a different way, through a lens that I never had before. I saw the casual sexism, the condescension, the way women were often underestimated. And something, a flicker of protectiveness, sparked within me.

A month. One freaking month this was supposed to last according to some stupid message i found in a random locker. This month has dragged on for a decade.

The end of the month crept closer, the anticipation mixed with a strange sense of trepidation. What would happen when I transformed back? Would I remember this? Would I ever look at a woman the same way again?

The day finally came, just like any other. I woke up, the morning sun filtering through the curtains. I stretched, a habit I had somehow managed to retain, and felt… different. I looked down. The curves were gone, replaced by the familiar flatness of my chest. My hands were large again, calloused, not soft and delicate.

I stumbled towards the mirror. Standing there, staring back, was Captain John Price, weathered face and steely eyes, the ghost of dark hair and softer features still lingering like a phantom limb.

I was back. I was me again. And yet, I wasn't the same. I carried with me the memories of that surreal month, the lessons learned, the perspective gained. I wouldn't fully understand it, not now, maybe not ever. But I knew, with absolute certainty, that I would never underestimate anyone, man or woman, again. Because I had walked in their shoes, or rather, their heels. And that, I realized, was something no training could ever teach me.