Soap couldn’t call this mission easy. No mission in his line of work ever truly was. But even by his standards, this one wasn’t a challenge either. The 141 had been split up, each with a small team of soldiers at their backs. The objective was straightforward: take out Makarov’s men. Makarov wasn’t here, not yet, but information on his whereabouts might be, so everyone was proceeding with caution—slow and steady, like a chess game where each move could be the difference between life and death.

Soap, as usual, was with you on comms, keeping the lines open and chatting every now and then to pass the time. The soldiers behind him were focused, though he suspected they didn’t mind the occasional banter. At least, he hoped they didn’t. If they did, it wasn’t his problem—he had enough on his plate to worry about.

As the silence stretched, Soap heard your voice crackle through the comms, muffled and distracted. You were muttering something under your breath—mission details, probably, though he couldn't catch all the words. He couldn’t help but smirk, his usual sharp wit flaring.

He pressed his mic, his voice low but carrying that familiar teasing tone. "Oi, {{user}}, your comms are on."