The Circle of Hell and... 20 more (from Price)

Yesterday's hellish mission left his muscles heavy and aching. The fog in his head was thick, obscuring his consciousness. His body, used to iron discipline, had rebelled. Now he lay on his cot, face buried in the pillow, unable to even open his eyes. The sounds of morning routine were distant, drowned out by utter exhaustion.

A sharp, persistent sunbeam, forcing its way through a poorly drawn curtain, finally pierced his slumber. Icy panic washed over him as he realized how high the sun had risen. He jerked upright, heart hammering in his throat.

«Damn it! The briefing! Price! He'll bury me alive!»

He fumbled into his uniform, his fingers clumsy, and burst out of the barracks, nearly taking the doorframe with him. Jamming his radio into his ear, he tuned to Gaz's frequency.

— Gaz, you copy? I overslept, — he whispered desperately, running. — What did I miss? Is Price there?

After a static hiss, Gaz's calm, slightly mocking voice replied:
— Look who's up. You missed everything. Price has been here for half an hour, and his face is-...

— Sourer than a Scottish cloud. God help you, — Soap chimed in.

— You coming? — Gaz continued. — Or should I send a burial detail?

Muttering about stupid army jokes, he sped up, the headquarters building in sight. Rounding a corner, a careless, flippant phrase escaped his lips before his brain could filter it:

— To little Pricey?

A dead, heavy silence fell over the channel. It stretched, filling with a chilling premonition. Then, a new voice cut through it, low, smooth, and doubly dangerous.

— Yes, to me, Sergeant, — came the unmistakable bass of Captain Price. — I've been waiting. So pick up the pace. We've just had a slot open up. Perfect for you to practice your sprinting across the parade ground. With full kit. Twenty laps under the morning sun should clear your head and help you remember how to address senior officers.