Archive of Our Own ^omega

They found the brownies in a weapons crate, which really should’ve been Soap’s first warning that the day was going to go sideways.

It was 0400. The hangar was cold, lit by strips of flickering fluorescent that made everyone look more tired than they already were. The team was gearing up around a battered folding table, mags, radios, NVGs, the usual pre mission chaos.

Captain MacTavish was triple checking the op plan when he noticed Ghost and Roach on the far end of the table, hunched together like school kids passing notes.

“Oi,” Soap called, not looking up from the map. “You two done playin’ grab arse, or do I need to separate you?”

“Relax, Captain." Ghost drawled. “M’sharin’ is carin’.”

Roach, as usual, said nothing. He just gave Soap a thumbs up and kept chewing.

Soap’s brain caught up a second later. Chewing? Chewing what?
He finally looked.

Ghost had his mask rolled up just high enough to reveal a strong jaw and a mouth full of suspiciously chocolate looking crumbs. Roach was standing beside him with a half eaten brownie in his gloved hand, the rest of the tinfoil wrapped bundle sitting atop a crate of 5.56 like it belonged there.

Soap frowned. “Where’d you get that?”

“Hospitality from our gracious Eastern European hosts." Ghost said, gesturing grandly with his own brownie. “Found ‘em nestled in with the ammo. Homemade, by the look of it. Warms the heart, really.”

Roach nodded, taking another large bite.

Soap’s eyes narrowed. “You two are eatin’ mystery food you found in an arms shipment.”

Ghost shrugged carelessly. “We eat MREs, sir. At this point, death is a mercy.”

“That’s not the flex you think it is.” Soap muttered.

Across the hangar, Price was talking into a sat phone, pacing near the ramp. He glanced over once, saw the three of them, then very deliberately turned his back like he’d seen enough nonsense for one career.

Soap marched over and snatched the brownie out of Roach’s hand. “You don’t eat random shite you find in an enemy’s crate.”

Ghost tossed his own finished brownie wrapper onto the table. “Too late for that safety brief, Captain."

“How many?” Soap demanded.

“Just one." Ghost said.

Soap shot him a look.

Ghost sighed dramatically. “Each. Maybe two. Maybe...three. They were small. Ish.”

Roach winced in the international expression for technically true but concerning.

Soap turned the half eaten brownie over in his hand. It smelled like chocolate, sugar, and bad decisions. “If I have to medevac your arses because you got food poisoning before we even leave the tarmac—”

“That’d be a first,” Price said, suddenly behind him. Soap jumped a little. The man moved like smoke.

Price eyed the tinfoil. “What’s that?”

“Brownies, sir,” Ghost answered brightly. “Gluten-free. Not Captain MacTavish approved."

Roach snorted.

Price’s mustache twitched. “You found those where?”

Soap pointed accusingly. “They ate ‘em out of the arms crate, like a pair of eejits."

Price’s face did a very particular thing- a tightening around the eyes that Soap recognized as regretting life choices. He leaned forward, sniffed the brownie in Soap’s hand, then straightened with a quiet exhale.

“Right,” Price said. “MacTavish, congratulations. They’re your problem.”

Soap blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means,” Price said, clapping him on the shoulder, “if they start seein’ purple elephants halfway through infil, you’re the one draggin’ ‘em out. Mission’s a go. We don’t have the luxury of binning it because Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum ate the evidence.”

Ghost put a hand over his heart, offended. “Sir, I’ll have you know I am at least Tweedle-Dum. Roach doesn’t talk enough to qualify as anything.”

Roach flicked an empty mag at his head.

Price already had his back turned, walking away. “Mount up. Wheels up in five. MacTavish, keep your children in line.”

Soap stared after him. “You’re just gonna—sir? Sir?” Johnny gave a exasperated  exhale. "Bloody great."

The cargo ramp started to whine open.

Ghost slapped a hand on Soap’s shoulder. “Look on the bright side, Captain. If we die, it’ll be hilarious.”

Insertion

The mission was supposed to be simple. Infiltrate a dockyard on the outskirts of some frigid, nameless port city. Sneak into a warehouse where some very unpleasant people were trading weapons and intel. Copy the data, plant charges, get out. In and out, nobody finds the bodies kind of night. Standard.

Soap sat on the bench opposite Ghost and Roach as the C-130 rattled through the dark sky, the red cabin light washing everything in soft crimson. He studied them both with the same suspicion he usually reserved for unexploded ordnance.

Ghost had his mask back in place, skull grinning under the red glow. He seemed...normal. He checked his rifle, rechecked it. Spun a knife in his fingers with the casual ease of long practice. Legs spread, posture relaxed.

Roach sat quietly, head resting against the fuselage, eyes half lidded but focused. His hands moved automatically over his gear, counting mags, grenades, checking straps.

Maybe it was fine. Maybe they were just brownies and not like what Price bad said.

“Right-" Soap said finally, leaning forward. “How d’ye two feel?”

Ghost considered. “Like I’m about to jump out of a perfectly good airplane, Captain."

Roach gave a lazy thumbs up.

“No nausea? Dizziness?” Soap pressed. “Weird feelings? Tinglin’?”

Ghost glanced at his own gloved fingers, wiggled them experimentally. “Define ‘weird feelings.’ I am strapped to a small armory and about to land in a hostile dockyard. Weird is relative.”

“Are you—” Soap searched for a tactful phrase and gave up, exhaling deeply, “—high?”

Ghost tilted his head, as if the question were philosophical. “On life? On adrenaline? On the knowledge that I’m your responsibility tonight, and that terrifies you more than the enemy?”

Roach huffed quietly, shoulders shaking.

Soap pinched the bridge of his nose. “Christ, give me strength.”

The red light flipped to green, bathing the cabin. The signal to go.

“Showtime,” Ghost said lowly, standing. “C’mon, Roach. Let’s ruin the Captain's evening.”

Roach stood, rolled his shoulders, and grabbed his rope without a word. Soap watched them go, a creeping unease curling in his gut. He told himself he was overreacting. He would realize, twenty minutes later, that he was absolutely not.

Contact

They hit the ground with three soft thuds, parachutes folding into the wet gravel of the shoreline. The docks loomed ahead, skeletal cranes, stacked containers, floodlights sweeping lazy arcs across the fog.

Soap did a quick headcount and gear check. Radios, suppressed rifles, NVGs—all green.
“Check in-" he murmured.

“Ghost, in." came the reply, crisp.

Roach clicked twice on the radio—his usual quiet acknowledgement.

So far, so good.

They moved, ghosting between shadows, slipping past the patrol patterns Soap had memorized off drone footage. The air smelled like salt, oil, and cold iron. Somewhere, a dog barked.
Ten minutes in, they were at the perimeter fence.

“Cut it.” Soap ordered.

Roach stepped forward, wire cutters already in hand. He worked with efficient, silent movements, the metal snipping cleanly.

Ghost leaned against a rusting barrel, eyes flicking back and forth with the slow sweep of the patrol’s flashlight beyond the fence. His breathing sounded normal in Soap’s earpiece. No giggles, no weird comments.

Maybe they metabolized it fast, Soap thought. Maybe it was just stale chocolate.

He should’ve known better the moment they slipped through the fence and Ghost stopped dead.
“...Captain-” Ghost whispered.

Soap froze, scanning. “What?”

“The ground.”

Soap frowned, checking his NVGs. “What about it?”

“It’s…incredible.”

Soap looked down. It was gravel.

“Explain-” Soap said flatly.

Ghost squatted down, gloved hand hovering just above the stones like he’d discovered an alien artifact. “They’re all different. Every single one. Little guys, just chillin’ here, being rocks. D’you think they ever get bored?”

Roach choked on a laugh, the sound muffled by his balaclava.

Soap’s heart dropped. “Oh, for—Ghost. Focus. How many fingers am I holdin’ up?”

“We’re on radio, sir.”

“Metaphorically.”

Ghost slowly extended one gloved finger upward. “This many. Thumb doesn't count."

Roach actually wheezed.

Soap grabbed Ghost by the plate carrier and dragged him upright. “Listen carefully, ye absolute clown. Are you impaired?”

Ghost leaned in, skull mask inches from Soap’s goggles. “I feel…great.”

“Define ‘great.’”

“My thoughts have thoughts, Cap'n."

Soap closed his eyes for a brief, desperate prayer.

“Roach-" he hissed.

Roach snapped to attention, or as close as he could manage with his shoulders still shaking. He gave a thumbs up again. Then, after a second, he gave another thumbs up with the other hand, like triple confirming.

“That’s not helpful,” Soap muttered. “Are you high?”

Roach considered, tilting his head. Then he held his hand flat and wobbled it side to side: kinda.

Ghost snorted. “He’s vibin’. Look at him. Little vibin’ Roach.”

Soap wanted to scream into the North Sea.

Price’s voice crackled quietly in his ear. “Status, MacTavish?”

“We’re inside the perimeter,” Soap said, forcing professionalism into his tone. “Proceeding toward the target warehouse. Minor…complication.”

“What kind of complication?” Price’s tone sharpened.

Soap watched Ghost poking at the gravel with the barrel of his rifle like he was conducting a scientific study, while Roach stared at a distant crane as though it contained the secrets of the universe.

“The…uh…dietary kind, sir.”
There was a pause—a loaded, you know I know silence.

“Copy,” Price said finally. “Mission continues. Keep it quiet.”

Soap bit back several words that would’ve been considered unprofessional in a court martial.
“Aye, sir.”

He turned back to his two walking catastrophes.

“Right,” he said sharply. “Game faces on. Ghost, Roach, we’re doin’ this. You will point your guns in the correct direction, you will not talk to the gravel, and you will not lick anything, or I swear to God I will shoot you myself.”

Ghost gasped. “You’d shoot a man in cold blood while he’s appreciating geology?”

“Move.”

Warehouse of Wonders (and Bad Life Choices)

Miraculously, they made it across the open lot without alerting anyone. Part of it was Soap’s constant, panicked micromanaging. The other part was that Ghost and Roach, while undeniably high off their faces, were still extremely well trained operators whose subconscious habits were doing a lot of heavy lifting.

Roach flowed from shadow to shadow, his steps quiet, muzzle tracking patrols with automatic precision. Once, he slid behind a stack of pallets with such smoothness that Soap almost forgot he was compromised—right up until Roach whispered, awed, “Soap, this pallet’s got…so many splinters.”

Ghost, meanwhile, moved wildly between hyper focused and distractible. One second he was providing perfect overwatch, calling out guard positions under his breath. The next, he’d lean in to Soap’s ear and murmur, “Isn’t it crazy how silencers don’t actually silence? They just…shush.”

“Shut up-" Soap hissed for the twentieth time.

“See? Exactly like that.”

They reached the side door of the target warehouse. A single guard stood there, pacing slowly, breath puffing in the cold. Soap signaled. Roach nodded, circling behind a stack of barrels. Ghost mirrored the movement on the other side, suppressor already raised.

On Soap’s mark, two muffled pops broke the quiet. The guard dropped without a sound, two neat holes in center mass.
Soap blinked.

“All right,” he said grudgingly. “Credit where it’s due. You still remember how to kill people.”

“Muscle memory, Captain-” Ghost whispered. “Like ridin’ a bike. A really violent bike.” He paused.
A moment of awkward silence.

“....right-" Soap said. “Stack up.”

They breached on three. The inside of the warehouse was a maze of crates, catwalks, and metal shelving. Dim overhead lights buzzed, casting long shadows. The air smelled of oil and cardboard and stale cigarette smoke.

Voices echoed from the far side—Russian, a few men laughing, unaware their night was about to get significantly worse.

“Ghost, high catwalk,” Soap murmured, pointing.

Ghost looked up…and audibly gasped.
“Look at that ladder,” he whispered reverently. “It just…goes up.”

“Congratulations-” Soap said deadpan. “That’s what ladders do. Roach, on me.”

They moved inward. The plan was simple: clear a path silently, reach the office at the back where the server was located, pull the data, plant charges on the support beams, exfil via the southwest corner where a hole in the fence offered a quick route to the docks.

Simple.

Except nothing was simple with two baked special forces operators in tow. The first real problem came when they hit a patrol of three guards walking down an aisle between crates. Soap signaled a three count ambush: Ghost on the left, Roach right, Soap center.

On ‘one’, Roach flowed smoothly into position on the right, sighting down his rifle, breath steady.

On ‘two’, Soap raised his own weapon.

On ‘three’—

Ghost, whisper shouting at full intensity: “Cap, Cap, Cap—these boxes have smiley faces.”

Soap flinched so hard his scope wobbled.

“What?!”

Ghost tapped the side of a crate with his knuckles. The crate had a faded shipping label with two black circles and a curved line that vaguely resembled a cartoon face if you squinted and had a compromised prefrontal cortex.

“He’s happy to see us-" Ghost murmured.

The patrol turned toward the sound.

“Contact!” Soap hissed.

Three suppressed shots cracked almost simultaneously. One guard dropped to Roach’s shot, another to Soap’s. The third fired off a burst, bullets chewing into crates.

Ghost, to his credit, snapped out of it fast. His own shot caught the last man in the throat, dropping him gurgling to the concrete.

For a second, the warehouse echoed with the fading ring of gunfire and the thump of a body.

Then silence.

Soap’s heart hammered against his ribs.

“Subtle-" Soap whispered furiously, giving out an exasperated sigh, “We talked about subtle.”

Ghost inhaled sharply. “He shot Happy Box.”

Roach coughed out a strangled noise that might’ve been laughter or hysteria.

“Eyes up,” Soap snapped. “If anyone comes to check what that noise was, we’re done. Move the bodies, then we’re straight to the office. No more talkin’ to boxes.”

Ghost and Roach moved the bodies with practiced efficiency, shoving them behind stacks of crates. Soap listened, every sense straining, but no shouts came. No footsteps.
They got lucky.

Again.

The Office

The office was a cramped, glass walled box perched on a mezzanine level overlooking the warehouse floor. A bank of old computer monitors glowed faintly inside.

Soap signaled halt and peered through a dusty pane. One man. Headphones in. Leaning back in his chair, watching something on a monitor. Soap eased the door open and slid inside, Ghost and Roach flanking him. The man never saw them.

Roach slipped behind him and wrapped an arm around his neck, applying a chokehold. Thirty seconds later, the guard sagged limp. They eased him to the floor.

“Roach, cover the door. Ghost, help me with the data.” Soap ordered, moving to the main terminal.

Ghost slid into the nearby chair and leaned forward, hands on the keyboard, staring at the screen like it had just become the most fascinating thing in the world.

“What d’you need, Captain?”

“Get me a copy of everything on that server. All partitions, custom directories, everything.”

Ghost cracked his knuckles theatrically. “I was born for this.”

“Pretty sure you were born in Manchester, but sure." Soap muttered, setting a flash drive and the unit’s custom data tap onto the desk.

Ghost plugged things in with surprising dexterity. His fingers flew over the keyboard, opening directories, executing scripts they’d drilled to muscle memory. For several blessed minutes, he was competently silent.

Soap almost started to relax.

Roach stood at the door, rifle ready, eyes flicking back and forth. Every so often, he’d glance at a fire extinguisher like it had personally offended him.

“MacTavish,” Price’s voice came over comms. “Status on the package?”

“Data’s comin’ through now,” Soap replied quietly, watching the progress bars creep across the screen. “No major alarm yet. We’re on schedule.”

“What about our…culinary enthusiasts?”

Soap glanced at Ghost, who was now humming under his breath as he typed, then at Roach, who was poking the unconscious guard’s boot with his own like he was making sure it was real.

“They’re…functional,” Soap said finally. “Within parameters.”

Price made a sound that could’ve meant anything from good to you’ll pay for this later.

“Clock’s tickin’. Get your files, plant your fireworks, and get out.”

“Roger.”

The main download completed with a soft beep. Ghost stared at the progress bar like it was the sunrise. “Look at it…finishin’. Goes from nothin’ to everything. A journey.”

“Take the drive out before I journey my boot up your arse,” Soap said.

Ghost gingerly removed the flash drive and handed it over with exaggerated care. “Our child, Captain. Raise them well.”

Roach shook silently in the doorway, shoulders quaking.

Soap pocketed the drive.
“Charges next. Ghost, take the north supports. Roach, south. Two each, low and discreet. Timers set for ten minutes on my mark. We’re not getting pinned inside when this thing blows."

Ghost snapped a sloppy salute. “Aye aye, Captain”.

The Problem with Hallways

The structural supports ran along the warehouse on either side—big steel columns, easy to wire with plastic explosives if you weren’t, say, fighting off an increasing urge to touch every texture you passed.

Soap discovered this when he caught up with Ghost at the first support and found him with both hands pressed flat against the cold metal, forehead resting against it like he was embracing an old friend.

“What bloody now?" Soap hissed.

Ghost whispered seriously, “He’s hummin’.”

Soap stared. “Who?”

Ghost tapped the beam. “This one. Can you feel it? Vibrations. Like…singin’.”

Soap slapped a block of C4 into Ghost’s hand. “Unless that beam is hummin’ the bloody mission parameters, I don’t care. Stick the charge and move.”

“Yes, sir,” Ghost said, though he took a second too long peeling himself off the metal.

They worked their way down.
Roach, to Soap’s relief, was more contained. He placed charges with quick, practiced movements, only occasionally getting distracted by the way dust motes floated in his NVG view.

Soap was midway through arming the final charge when everything went sideways. He heard it first—a distant shout, the distinct change in tone from casual conversation to alarm. Then the warehouse loudspeaker crackled to life, a burst of Russian barked through it. They’d been made.

“Ack, fuckin hell-” Soap muttered. “Ghost, Roach, we’re burned. Move to exfil, now.”

“On the way,” Ghost replied. His voice had lost some of its dreamy lilt, danger cutting through the haze.

Roach clicked twice.

Soap hit the timer on the last charge. Ten minutes. That was suddenly not a lot of time. Footsteps thundered in the aisles. Shouts overlapped. The warehouse lit up with floodlights as someone hit the alarm.

“You’ve got friendlies converging on your position,” Price said over comms. “Be advised, QRF’s mobilizing from the south. You’ve stirred the nest.”

“Copy,” Soap said. “We’re headin’ north to the fence breach. Keep the car warm.”

“Car?” Ghost cut in. “You got us a car? Do we get to pick the music?”

“Keep movin’, Ghost.”

High-Speed, Low-Drag

Completely Unhinged. They moved fast. Gunfire cracked from somewhere behind them, bullets shredding cardboard and pinging off metal. Roach fired controlled three round bursts, dropping shapes that moved between crates. Ghost alternated between deadly precise shots and commentary.
“One on your left, Roach. Yes, there you go. Ooh, nice groupin’, mate. That’s art.”

“Ghost-” Soap snarled.

“What? I’m encouragin’ him.”
They cut through a side aisle, only to find a squad of five men rushing in from the far end.

“Back!” Soap barked.

Ghost didn’t back up. He stepped in front of Soap instead, raised his rifle, and let loose a series of rapid, perfectly placed shots, sweeping left to right. Three enemies dropped before they could shoulder their weapons. The remaining two dove for cover. Ghost dove too, but not in the direction Soap was expecting. He flung himself sideways behind a forklift, hit the ground, rolled, and came up laughing.

“Did you see that?” Ghost crowed over comms. “I felt like a tumbleweed.”

Roach lobbed a flashbang down the aisle before Soap could throttle him. The bang white popped, and the last two enemies staggered out, stunned. Three quick shots and they were down.

“Less rollin’, more shootin’!” Soap snapped.

“Multitaskin’, Cap'n.” Ghost said, but he sounded a little breathless now, the reality of the firefight chewing through the worst of the high.

They pushed on, weaving between crates as bullets chased them..At one point, they had to cross a wide, open lane between shelves. Soap went first, sprinting low, sliding behind a stack of oil drums. He gestured sharply. “Go!”

Roach darted across next, fast and low. Ghost followed…and halfway through, he started giggling. That was Soap’s first clue that something was wrong.
The second clue was Ghost’s faceplant. He tripped over absolutely nothing, arms pinwheeling in slow motion, and for a horrible, surreal second Soap watched a tower of lethal chaos topple forward like a felled tree. Ghost hit the floor chest first with a loud oof, then lay there, laughter crackling over the radio.

“Ground’s closer than I remember." Ghost wheezed.

Bullets sparked off the concrete nearby.

“Bloody hell—Roach, cover!” Soap yelled.

Roach popped up from behind his own cover, firing toward the muzzle flashes at the far end of the lane. Suppressed rounds pinged off metal, forcing the enemy to duck. Soap exploded from behind the drums, grabbed Ghost by his plate carrier, and half-dragged, half-flung him behind cover.

Ghost landed in a heap, still laughing, though now with a slight edge of ow.

“You good?” Soap snarled.
Ghost gave him a sloppy thumbs up. “10/10, would trip again.”

“You’re doin’ great, Ghost." Soap said through gritted teeth. “Roach, we’re movin’ left. Smoke out the middle.”

Roach tossed a smoke grenade, the canister clattering across the lane. It spewed thick white clouds, swallowing the center of the warehouse in a dense fog.
Under its cover, they moved—stumbling, swearing, shooting back blindly when muzzle flashes stuttered through the haze.

In Soap’s ear, the timer on the charges ticked down, a silent pressure.

8:42.

They cut through another aisle and finally saw the north wall and the gap in the fence beyond it. The cold breeze knifed through the warehouse, carrying the smell of the sea.

“Almost there,” Soap panted.

“Price, we’re comin’ out north now.”

“Copy,” Price replied. “We’re staged two hundred meters out. You’ve got hostiles spillin’ into the yard, so keep it loud and keep it movin’.”

Ghost snorted. “We got that part covered.”

They burst out a side door into the open yard. Floodlights turned the world into harsh white and black shadows. Men were shouting, pointing, some firing. Bullets snapped past. Roach dropped to a knee and laid down suppressive fire, crisp bursts forcing the closest enemies behind cover. Ghost joined him, his shot grouping disturbingly tight for someone who had recently communed with a structural beam.

Soap fired as he moved, guiding them toward the fence line. Someone lobbed a grenade just ahead, the small object bouncing across the wet gravel.

Ghost’s voice spiked. “Grenade!”

Roach pivoted, soccer kicked the grenade back like it was a football. It arced through the air, bounced once behind a stack of crates, and detonated harmlessly behind their cover.

There was a stunned silence on comms.

Even Ghost shut up for a full three seconds.

“Remind me to never play five-a-side with you." Soap muttered.

Ghost whispered, reverent, “He bent it like Beckham.”

Roach just shrugged and kept shooting.

They reached the fence, the same cut they’d slipped through on the way in. Soap shoved Ghost toward it. “Through. Now.”

Ghost stared at the gap, then put a hand on the wire. “D’you ever think how fences are just…lines people agree on?”

Soap bodily pushed him through.

Exfil

They sprinted across the scrubby ground toward the rendezvous point, bullets whining over their heads, the glow of the burning warehouse starting to flicker behind them as the fire reached the first charges
.
“Timers?” Price barked.

Soap glanced at his wrist display.
2:01.

“Two minutes ‘til fireworks,” he replied, lungs burning.

The extraction vehicle came into view—a battered pickup truck with its lights off, engine rumbling quietly. Price stood in the bed, rifle held casually in one hand, as if this was a mildly inconvenient detour on his way to breakfast.

“Get in-" he called.

They piled into the back, landing in a tangle of gear and limbs. Price banged on the roof and the driver gunned it, the truck fishtailing briefly on the wet ground before straightening and tearing away.

Behind them, the warehouse blew. The first charge went off with a teeth.rattling whump, the night sky lighting up orange.

Secondary explosions rippled through the structure as stored ammo cooked off. Flames licked at the dark, black smoke curling upward.

Ghost sat up, watching the inferno recede, mask tilted skyward.
“Pretty-" he murmured.

“Focus on not falling out,” Soap snapped, grabbing the back of Ghost’s vest as they hit a bump.

Roach lay on his back, staring up at the stars. After a moment, he lifted one hand and made a vague explosion gesture toward the sky.

Price, standing braced near the cab, looked down at them—one half broken team leader and his two high-as-a-kite commandos.

“Everyone in one piece?” he asked.

“Mostly-” Soap muttered. “Ghost tripped over air and tried to romance a support beam, but we got the data and planted the charges.”

“Roach bent a grenade,” Ghost said helpfully, pointing.

Price’s brows went up. “He what?”

Roach mimed the kick again, quietly, like a shy kid showing a drawing.

Price huffed a faint, unwilling chuckle. “Remind me to put you on the football pool.”

The truck roared down the dark road, leaving the burning dockyard behind. For a brief moment, no one spoke. The adrenaline began to ebb. The cold bit harder.

Then Ghost let out a soft, very serious sigh. "Captain?"

Soap closed his eyes, exhaling deeply. “What now.”

Ghost pointed up. “Stars look…HD tonight.”

Roach nodded solemnly.

Soap dropped his head into his hands. “I’m requestin’ a transfer.”

Debrief (or: Consequences of Being a Menace)

Hours later, after exfil and the long, cold flight back, they ended up in a briefing room at base. Concrete walls, metal chairs, the smell of stale coffee. A whiteboard covered in maps and scribbles.

Ghost and Roach sat side by side, slightly slumped, the crash having caught up to them hard. They looked like hungover raccoons.

Soap stood at the end of the table, leaning back against it, arms crossed, expression carved from stone.

Price paced slowly, a file in his hands. He set it down and looked at the three of them.
“Well,” he said. “On paper, mission’s a success. Data secured, target warehouse destroyed, zero friendly casualties.”

Ghost gave Roach a tired fist bump under the table.

Price’s gaze sharpened. “Off paper, you two numpties ingested unknown narcotics before a mission, compromised your own performance, and turned MacTavish’s life into a farce.”

Ghost lifted a hand. “In my defense, sir, I thought they were just very enthusiastic brownies.”

Roach, to everyone’s surprise, spoke up. “They tasted…strong.”

Soap’s head whipped around, glaring at him. Roach blinked mildly and sank lower in his chair.

Price pinched the bridge of his nose. “I ought to have you both on latrine duty for a month. You’re bloody lucky no one got killed because you fancied a snack.”

Ghost’s shoulders slumped. “Yes, sir.”

Roach stared at the table, chastened.

Price turned to Soap.
“MacTavish.”

“Yes?"

“You kept them on task, got the job done, and managed not to shoot either of them, which shows remarkable restraint.”

“Was a near thing-" Soap muttered.

“You’ll oversee their punishment,” Price said. “And you’ll make damned sure that the next time they see unmarked baked goods in a hostile environment, they remember tonight. Understood?”

Soap’s eyes lit with something that made Ghost deeply nervous. “Oh, aye. I understand perfectly.”

Ghost leaned toward Roach. “He’s gonna be insufferable.”

Roach nodded.

Price clapped his hands once. “Right. Get some sleep. You’re off op rota for forty eight hours.”

Ghost blinked. “That’s it?”

Price tilted his head. “Did you want somethin’ more?”

“Uh. No, sir. Sleep is good. Sleep is…safe.”

Price’s mustache twitched. “Thought so. Dismissed.”

He left, the door clicking shut behind him.

For a moment, there was silence.
Then Soap turned slowly toward them, a smile that could only be described as evil spreading across his face.

“Right, you two,” he said. “Here’s how this is gonna go. Tomorrow, 0600, training ground. Full kit. We’re runnin’ drills ‘til you regret ever lookin’ at a brownie in your lives.”

Ghost groaned softly. “Captain, have mercy.”

“You didn’t have mercy on me,” Soap shot back. “D’you know how many bloody times you nearly got us killed talkin’ shite to inanimate objects?”

Roach raised a hesitant hand, then pointed at Ghost, then pantomimed a rock.

Soap snorted. “Exactly. Gravel.”

Ghost covered his masked face with both hands. “In my defense, it was very tactile.”

Roach gave him a thumbs down.

“You’re both banned from snackin’ on anything that isn’t issued or vetted by me,” Soap continued. “If you so much as look at a pastry unsupervised, I’ll staple your hands to your plate carriers.”

“Bit extreme-" Ghost muttered.

“Extreme?” Soap barked a laugh. “You tripped over nothin’ in the middle of a firefight, you dramatic skeleton.”

Roach nodded vigorously but chuckled anyways.

Ghost glared at him. “You kicked a live grenade like you were auditionin’ for the Premier League, and I’m the dramatic one?”

Roach shrugged, unbothered.

Soap rubbed his temples. “I swear, you two are gonna give me grey hair.

Ghost tilted his head. “Think you already have some, Captain."

Roach squinted thoughtfully at Soap’s hair and nodded.

Soap pointed at the door. “Out. Both of you. Before I change my mind and ask Price if court martial’s still on the table.”

They shuffled to their feet, trudging toward the exit.
At the doorway, Ghost paused and looked back.
“Hey, Soap?" he said, voice a shade softer.

“What?”

“Thanks for not leavin’ us in the warehouse when we got…weird.”

Soap snorted. “Believe me, I considered it.”

Roach gave him a small, genuine salute.

Soap rolled his eyes, but something in his expression eased. “Just…don’t make me babysit you while you’re high next time, yeah? If you want to be menaces, do it when we’re not tryin’ to not die.”

Ghost’s eyes crinkled behind the mask. “No promises.”

Roach pointed at Ghost, then made a zip your lips gesture firmly.

Ghost gasped. “Et tu, Roach?”

Roach patted his shoulder and pushed him out the door.

The door clicked shut behind them, their muffled bickering fading down the hallway.
Soap stood alone in the empty room for a moment, then let out a long, heartfelt sigh.

“God help me,” he muttered. “I’m runnin’ a daycare.”

Through the thin wall, he heard Ghost’s voice echo faintly:
“Roach, mate, d’you ever think about how ladders are just stairs with commitment issues—”

Soap’s head thunked gently against the whiteboard.

He was absolutely, completely, eternally done.

And he knew this would not be the last time..