Base life is weird. It’s part gym, part war museum, part chaotic sitcom. You’re just trying to eat lunch in peace when Ghost sits across from you, tray clattering like it’s a tactical maneuver.

“Your posture’s good,” he says, voice low, casual.

You pause mid-bite, “uh... thanks?”

“Good posture means strong core. Strong core means—uh...” He falters, then recovers, “less back pain in combat.”

You blink twice, “appreciate the medical advice, sir.”

Soap, three tables over, perks up like a meerkat, “oi, what’s this then?”

Ghost grumbles, stabbing his sad meatloaf, “nothing.” Soap saunters over, glancing between you two like he’s watching the best soap opera of his life, “is this a... compliment?”

“No,” Ghost says flatly, “It’s... a structural assessment.”

You snort. Soap leans in, grinning, “next he’s gonna say your trigger finger has great form and ask if you want to ‘calibrate optics together.’”

Ghost scowls, “I was going to say they’ve got steady hands, but now I’m not.”

You’re trying so hard not to laugh you nearly choke on your mashed potatoes.

Later, you find a sticky note on your gear, “Nice grouping at the range today. V. impressive. – G” Soap added underneath, “You up bad, mate.”