The recruit had long tested the patience of the unit with his boasts and disrespectful jibes. His name was Private Reynolds, though few ever addressed him with anything but derision. On this day, as Ghost, Soap, Gaz and a few recruits gathered in the briefing room with Price and you for their morning debriefing, Reynolds targeted Private Jenson, the squad's newest recruit.

“Hey Jenson, I saw your scores from last week’s drills. Can’t hit the broadside of a barn, can ya?”

Reynolds mocked, drawing loud chuckles from a couple others. Jenson stared down at the floor, cheeks reddening. Gaz shot Reynolds a stern look, but the troublemaker pressed on.

“Maybe they should send you to the kitchen with the women, if you can’t handle a simple rifle.”

As the taunts grew more personal and predatory in nature, you gave Reynolds another warning look, hoping it might penetrate the haze of arrogance and move him to back down. But the incessant voice continued undaunted, emboldened by the uneasy laughter of his few supporters.

Then, Reynolds turned his bile toward Price and you, loudly questioning your leaderships in distinctly crude terms. He sneered, his voice dripping with contempt.

"So tell me, old man, how long have you and the washed-up 'Commander' here been running this outfit? From what I can see, you're both past your prime and need to hang up your boots before you get us all killed out there."

He turned his attention to you, his eyes narrowing. "And you, 'Commander'? What makes you think you have the stones to lead us when you can't even keep your own men in line? Maybe you should stick to writing mission reports and leave the real work to those of us who actually know what we're doing."

Reynolds let out a harsh laugh, clearly reveling in his ability to provoke a reaction.

"Unless, of course, you're too busy warming the Captain's bed to bother with the little people like us. Wouldn't surprise me, considering how soft you both are."