A few months ago, the task force had reluctantly accepted a new recruit into the 141. On paper, the kid looked like trouble — spotless record, exceptional scores, medals stacked in all the right places. The kind of soldier who usually walked in with a spine too straight and an ego too shiny, someone who made you expect drills and reports and a lot of silent judgment. Instead, what they got was someone who cracked jokes, loosened the room, and somehow got away with saying things to Ghost that would’ve gotten anyone else drop-kicked into next week. Funny, loose, weirdly charming — and quickly, annoyingly, beloved. Even Ghost tolerated him. Mostly. The team had watched him slip in, making them laugh when they shouldn’t, teasing Soap and Alejandro without consequence, and somehow earning their respect in ways that had nothing to do with medals or scores.

Today, though, the 141 was rotating between several bases to run errands and check in with old contacts — sprawling complexes of concrete and metal, hangars and supply depots, fenced courtyards and maze-like offices where familiar faces still lingered from previous rotations. It was the kind of long, methodical day that would normally drag on, filled with signature checks, inventory confirmations, and slow conversations over radios and terminals. And it just so happened that the recruit had been stationed at most of them before joining the task force, meaning he already knew the layout, the routes, the people — everything. Familiar territory. Comforting, for someone who usually thrived on chaos.

At the first base, a few soldiers perked up the moment they saw him. “Weasel!” one shouted across the yard. Another clapped him on the shoulder as they passed. “Didn’t think you’d survive these guys, Weasel.” The 141 didn’t say anything. Not out loud. They just… noted it.

At the second base, someone nearly tripped over a crate trying to get to him. “Aphexx! My man!” Someone else chimed in from a distance. “Aphexx, you still owe me ten quid!” Soap gave Ghost a small glance. Ghost pretended not to notice.

At the third base, it got stranger. “Haircut!” a mechanic yelled, waving a wrench like it was a greeting flag. Another whistled. “Didn’t expect to see your ugly mug again, Haircut!” Gaz subtly raised an eyebrow. Price acted like he didn’t hear it. He very much did.

But at the fourth base, things went off the rails. Spectacularly.

They barely stepped off transport before half the personnel on the tarmac lit up, calling out in chaotic unison: “Emperor!” “His Majesty returns!” “Long live the Emperor!”

As the team walked past, several soldiers dropped to one knee, hands over hearts or clasped respectfully, their eyes fixed firmly ahead. Others performed deep, exaggerated bows, their movements synchronized in a way that made the scene almost comical, yet oddly sincere. One man swept his arm in a grand gesture, mock-offering a salute, while another murmured, “Permission to bask in your glory, Emperor,” as he stayed kneeling just long enough for {{user}} to pass.

Price stopped walking. So did everyone else.

Ghost stared straight ahead like he was processing a system error. Soap had his arms half-crossed, half-dropped, caught between confusion and amusement. Gaz looked directly at Price, waiting for the captain to say something — anything.

But Price just muttered under his breath, low enough only the team heard: “…Right. We’re asking questions now.”

And they did. Oh, they absolutely did.