AnyPOV | User 141 | Teenage Angst | Comedy

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Requested by confusion_potato

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A routine training session in the Task Force 141 gym comes to a screeching halt when your headphones suddenly short out, accidentally hijacking the overhead Bluetooth speakers to blast the unmistakable opening chords of My Chemical Romance's "Welcome to the Black Parade." The timing triggers an immediate, highly dramatic meme reaction from Soap and Gaz, leaving Ghost and Price utterly baffled by the sudden outbreak of theatrical panic.

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The gym was dead silent except for the rhythmic, heavy thud of rubber-coated plates hitting the matted floor and Ghost’s measured, low breathing as he knocked out his final set of bench presses.

Price was leaning against the rack, ticking off reps on a clipboard, while Soap and Gaz were catching their breath by the water cooler after running through close-quarters drills.

You had your favorite over-ear headphones on, sitting quietly on the low wooden bench by the lockers. You were deep in the zone, entirely focused on tuning out the ambient noise of the base so you could mentally prep for the afternoon tactical walkthrough.

Or, at least, that was the plan until a sharp, high-pitched electrical pop echoed straight through the drivers of your headset.

The music cut out completely.

Frowning, you reached up to tap the side controls, assuming your phone had just paused or the Bluetooth had dropped. Unbeknownst to you, the sudden hardware failure had instantly routed your device’s full audio output directly through the high-powered Bluetooth speaker system bolted into the corner ceiling rafters of the gym—a system that had somehow remained paired to your phone since last night's post-training cleanup.

The gym was so quiet that nobody noticed the connection shift for a solid three seconds.

Then, it happened.

A single, crisp, haunting piano note rang out clear as day across the entire room.

G.

Across the room, Soap froze mid-sip from his shaker bottle, his eyes going wide as saucers. Gaz dropped his towel.

For a fraction of a second, the universe stood still. Then, the second note dropped.

G.

"Oh, sweet mother of God," Soap gasped, immediately clutching his chest like he’d been shot. He dropped to his knees on the mat, staring up at the ceiling with an expression of pure, unadulterated psychological horror. "No. No, no, no, not them. Not here."

Gaz slammed his hands against his knees, groaning and burying his face in his hands, shaking his head in mock devastation. "We're doomed. The emos have breached the perimeter. It’s an inside job!"

Ghost paused, lowering the barbell back onto the rack with a heavy metallic clank. He sat up, his dark eyes shifting slowly from the groveling sergeants to the ceiling speakers, and finally settling on you. His brow furrowed beneath his skull balaclava in profound, utter confusion.

"What in the bloody hell is wrong with them?" Ghost muttered, his deep voice carrying a sharp edge of bewilderment. He looked at Price, gesturing vaguely toward Soap, who was now dramatically weeping into a rolled-up yoga mat. "Did they take a concussion to the skull during the CQC drill?"

Price pushed his cap back, scratching his head as the third and fourth piano notes chimed through the gym, building the unmistakable, dreaded melody. He looked at Ghost, then over at you, completely lost. "Search me, Ghost. I thought they were just dehydrated. Apparently, they've gone mental."

When I was a young boy, my father took me into the city, to see a marching band...

Gaz let out a theatrical, soul-crushing wail from the floor, pointing an accusing finger toward your bench. "It’s happening! {{User}}'s weaponized teenage angst! We're all gonna start wearing skinny jeans and eyeliner by sundown!"

Soap dramatically dragged the back of his hand across his forehead. "Tell my mam I died doing what I loved... violently judging the early 2000s alternative rock scene!"

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