It was a chilly Friday evening when Bryan—gamer extraordinaire and self-proclaimed “undefeated king of the Gulag”—strode into the local Veterans’ Club. He had been waiting for this moment his entire life. Or at least since Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare, which, let’s be honest, might as well be the same thing. Dressed in his finest combat gear (read: a hoodie with “Prestige Master” embroidered across the chest), he was ready to share tales of bravery, cunning, and exceptional finger dexterity.
His most prized possession hung around his neck—a chain of Call of Duty Prestige medals gleaming under the flickering fluorescent lights. These were hard-earned tokens of his skill, granted only to the most dedicated players who had spent countless hours—nay, days—grinding through the ranks, capping flags, and sniping noobs in various fictional warzones.
As Bryan made his way into the hall, his chest puffed out like a pigeon in mating season, he felt a tingle of anticipation. Here, finally, was a place where he could bond with like-minded heroes. He scanned the room. Real war veterans sat around, sharing stories, some missing limbs, some with weary eyes, and all with an aura of true grit and experience. Bryan cracked his knuckles. They’re going to love this.
Approaching the group, he received a few curious glances, particularly from a stern-looking older gentleman with a handlebar moustache and enough medals to sink a small boat.
“Evening, lad. What action have you seen?” the man asked, his voice carrying the weight of someone who had once stared death in the face; and then promptly headbutted it.
Bryan took a deep breath. It was time. “Well, you see, mate,” he began, his voice trembling with emotion, “It was Call of Duty: Black Ops III. Domination mode. The map was Nuketown. You ever been to Nuketown?”
The moustachioed veteran raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Bryan interpreted this as a cue to continue.
“Anyway, it was 8 v 8. I was with my clan, ‘The Frag Kings’—shoutout to my boys, by the way. We had a solid strategy. I mean, we practically wrote the book on map control. The action was brutal from the get-go. Grenades flying, snipers in the windows—constant UAVs overhead. You know the drill.”
A quiet murmur passed through the crowd. One vet leaned over and whispered, “What’s a UAV?”
“I was pushing up the B flag—alone,” Bryan went on, his voice dropping to a dramatic whisper. “Everyone else was down. My squad had just been wiped by a tactical nuke. I knew I had to make a move. The enemy was swarming. I could hear them teabagging my teammates’ corpses.”
An audible gasp.
“Just when I thought it was over, I did it—I switched to my secondary, the Desert Eagle. Boom, boom, BOOM! Three headshots in quick succession. It was just me versus the entire enemy team, but I didn’t flinch. I tossed a flashbang around the corner, sprinted through the chaos, and capped the last frag to win the game. We won… by a single point.”
Bryan paused, staring into the distance. He could still hear the faint sound of the victory jingle—You are the victor—echoing in his mind. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. The silence in the room was thick. He was sure they understood now. They had to.
“So… which branch of the military were you in?” the moustachioed veteran finally asked, a hint of suspicion creeping into his tone.
“Uh… I was in the XP army,” Bryan replied, puffing out his chest even more. “Prestige level 10, mate. That’s not for the faint of heart.”
Another veteran, missing an eye but looking unimpressed, chimed in, “You ever do any real soldiering, son?”
Bryan narrowed his eyes. “Mate, I’ve spent more nights in the trenches of Verdansk than I can count. The battlefield changes you. You wouldn’t believe the number of times I’ve had to survive with just a pistol and a heartbeat sensor. And don’t even get me started on the hackers. I’ve seen things…”
The group exchanged puzzled glances.
“Sometimes,” Bryan continued, lowering his voice as if revealing a great secret, “I close my eyes, and I still hear the click of a headshot. The screams of 12-year-olds who’ve been sniped from across the map. You can mute them, but you can’t mute the memories. That stuff stays with you.”
The moustachioed vet cleared his throat, trying to maintain composure. “Right… So, have you ever been under real fire?”
Bryan leaned forward, dead serious. “You ever play Shipment 24/7, mate? That’s real fire. Spawn, die, repeat. I didn’t even see daylight for two whole days during Double XP weekend. And don’t even get me started on Quake. Fastest reflexes in the world, mate. Pure adrenaline.”
At this point, the veterans were trying to suppress their laughter. One of them cracked a smile. “Well, Bryan,” the moustachioed vet said, stifling a chuckle, “I reckon you’ve earned a pint.”
Bryan smiled, his heart swelling with pride. “Cheers, mate. But I’ll have to take a rain check. There’s a Fortnite tourney tonight. Can’t keep the squad waiting. Victory Royale or bust.”
As he turned to leave, one of the vets clapped him on the back. “Good luck out there, soldier.”
And with that, Bryan swaggered out of the hall, his Prestige medals clinking like the spoils of war, convinced he had earned the respect of the real veterans. After all, not all heroes wear dog tags. Some wear headsets and scream at their screens in the dead of night.
And that, dear reader, is the story of Bryan, the unsung hero of the digital battlefield.
GG, Bryan. GG.
