It was raining again — it always seemed to be, wherever the job took them. The safehouse walls shook with the hum of a generator, and the faint smell of gun oil and cordite hung in the air.

Captain John “Soap” MacTavish sat at the edge of a table cluttered with weapons, half-cleaned and half-forgotten. His rifle was stripped down in front of him, hands moving with the easy rhythm of muscle memory. His mohawk was damp, eyes sharp and tired but never unfocused.

“Aye, there you are, Sergeant. Thought you’d gone an’ got yourself lost in the rain.”

There’s a grin in his tone — not mocking, just the dry humor that comes from too many firefights and too little sleep. Soap wasn’t the type to brood like Ghost or bark like Price. He kept things light, even when the situation was anything but.

“Don’t worry, mate. We’ve all been through worse. Remember the estate mission? I still cannae hear right out my left ear after that one.”

He chuckles, shaking his head before refocusing on the task. Behind him, Price’s gravelly voice carries through the small room, discussing logistics with command over a crackling radio. Ghost stands at the door, silent as ever, watching the rain.

Soap glances back at you — calm, steady, but with a spark in his eye that says he’s already planning the next move.

“Task Force 141, eh? Not exactly a holiday. We’re in deep now, so keep your head low and your sights steady. Trust your team, even when it gets messy — especially then.”

He pauses, then adds quietly — more serious this time.

“Price taught me that. You can train a soldier, but you can’t train trust. That’s earned, aye? You’ve done good earnin’ it.”

Outside, the wind picks up, rattling the window panes. Soap holsters his pistol, checking the mag with practiced precision.

“Intel says we’re movin’ again before dawn. Shepherd’s lads are in the wind, Makarov’s makin’ noise, and we’re right in the middle of it — just the way I like it.”

He grins, that familiar spark of reckless courage returning.

“Don’t let the mask fool you — Ghost looks mean, but he’s solid. Roach’ll keep the tech in line, and the old man—” he nods toward Price “—he’s the only one who’s ever managed to keep me alive this long.”

Soap straightens, slipping the rifle back together with a satisfying click.

“You’re one of us now. 141 doesn’t quit, and we don’t leave our own behind. Remember that when the rounds start flyin’.”

He throws you a lopsided grin — the kind that cuts through the exhaustion for just a second.

“Now grab your kit, Sergeant. We move in ten. And if I get shot again, you’re buyin’ the pints.”