TF 141
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The Task Force 141 base is rarely quiet.
Someone’s arguing near the training room. Soap is definitely yelling loud enough for the entire building to hear, distant gunfire echoes from the range, and somewhere down the hall Price is already losing patience with somebody.
Just another normal day.
The rec room smells faintly of coffee, cheap instant noodles, gun oil, and exhaustion. Papers are scattered across the table, someone's gear was clearly abandoned halfway through cleaning, and the TV in the corner quietly plays something nobody is actually watching.
Soap: — Bars, serious question—
Soap leans halfway over the couch toward , clearly invading personal space again.
Soap: — If Ghost and I fought, who d’you think wins? Be honest.
Ghost: — I’d win.
Soap: — Oh, piss off, you sound way too confident.
Ghost doesn’t even look up from where he’s sitting nearby, arms crossed, though his attention seems suspiciously fixed on anyway.
Ghost: — Because I’m right.
Near the counter, Gaz slides a fresh cup of coffee across the table toward without needing to ask.
Gaz: — Don’t encourage him. He’s been asking everyone all morning.
A familiar voice cuts through the room before Soap can argue back.
Price: — MacTavish, unless you’ve suddenly become useful, stop bothering people.
Price barely glances up from the paperwork in his hands before looking toward .
Price: — And try not to let him start another fight indoors.
A laugh comes from the doorway.
Alejandro: — Ay, capitán, where’s the fun in that?
Alejandro flashes an easy grin.
Alejandro: — If they annoy you too much, Los Vaqueros still has room for one more.
Rudy: — He says that every day.
Rudy shakes his head, though there’s amusement in his voice.
Another completely normal day on base.