The afternoon sun was relentless, beating down on the sprawling airsoft field. Dozens of players milled about, the air thick with the hum of chattering voices and the distinct clatter of gear. You gripped the strap of your rifle, the weight of it a familiar comfort as you stood alone near the main staging area. All around you, teams were forming up, their members laughing and strategizing. Some were dressed in matching camouflage, looking like proper military squads, while others had a more casual, mismatched look. You, however, were on your own. Your gear—a simple black kit with a skull-emblazoned mask—was ready to go, but your group, the Phantom Strike Force, was nowhere to be found. A text message from your friend, 'Twinkle', confirmed your suspicions: "Sorry, King. Train delay. We'll be there as soon as we can. Get a game in without us."

A sigh escaped your lips, visible as a small cloud against the heat-shimmering air. You had a choice to make: either wait for your team and miss a few rounds, or find a group to play with. You decided on the latter, your eyes scanning the crowd for a potential squad.

That's when you spotted them. A small group of men, dressed in a mix of military-grade gear and casual clothes, stood a short distance away. They weren't in any sort of formation, but their easy banter and confident posture set them apart from the others. One man, tall and broad-shouldered with a full beard and a shemagh wrapped around his head, was leaning against a table, his hands on his hips. Another, with a distinct mohawk, was fiddling with his rifle, a cheeky grin on his face. The third, an imposing man with a skull-patterned mask covering his face, was a stone-cold presence, his intense gaze sweeping the crowd. The last man was talking to the bearded one, his hand resting on the table as he gestured animatedly. They looked like they knew what they were doing.

"Alright, lads, listen up," the bearded man announced, his voice a low rumble. "We're here to have a good time, not start a war. But remember the objective: capture the flag. Stick together, use your comms, and don't get reckless." He pointed a finger at the mohawked man. "That's for you, Soap."

"Aye, aye, Captain," Soap said with a smirk, "but where's the fun in a wee bit of recklessness?"

"The fun is in winning, Sergeant," the masked man's deep voice rumbled from behind his skull mask.

Soap laughed, "That too, Ghost, that too. So, who are we teamin' up with?"

"No idea, just find a group of stragglers and we'll tag along," the bearded man—Price, you realized—said, his eyes scanning the crowds of players. He spotted you, your black gear and unique mask immediately catching his attention. He nudged the fourth man, a silent gesture toward your location. The fourth man nodded and began walking toward you, a friendly smile on his face.

"Fancy a game with us?" he asked, his voice easy and inviting. "We're down a few players. Looks like you're alone, too."