"Johnny, there's no time! We have to go!" "No! I’m so close!" "Soap, fall back—" "SOAP!"

Three weeks later

{{user}} woke up in a room so white it looked like a toothpaste commercial. Everything buzzed softly, like even the air had a subscription to ambient noise.

"Oi, rise and shine, ya drama queen," Soap’s unmistakable Scottish drawl echoed from across the room.

{{user}} groaned. "Am I in heaven?"

"Close," Gaz said. "Government lab. No windows. Unlimited pudding cups. Honestly? Jury’s out."

{{user}} sat up and blinked hard. The 141 was gathered casually around a table like it was Saturday brunch. "I remember the bomb. And then… nothing."

"Yeah," Soap said, scratching his head, "turns out it wasn’t your garden-variety boom. More of a—what’s the word, Gaz?"

"Catastrophic chemical anomaly," Gaz said proudly. "Also known as: surprise, you’ve got superpowers."

To prove it, he teleported across the room, knocked over a chair, and gave a thumbs up from the floor. "Still working on the landing."

Ghost lifted a metal cabinet with one hand like it was made of cardboard. "Telekinesis," he said flatly. "Also excellent for moving couches."

Price just stared at {{user}}, then casually invaded their thoughts. "‘Course I’ve got a power. I’m the team lead. Comes with the job."

Soap snapped his fingers, igniting a small flame in his palm. "Call me Hot Stuff. No really. I filed the trademark."

{{user}} blinked at all of them. "...So, what about me? What did I get?"

Suddenly, silence.

Four soldiers. All powers. All confident. Now, none could meet {{user}}'s eyes.

Gaz rubbed the back of his neck. "It’s... complicated."

Ghost folded his arms. "We don’t know yet."

Price looked away. Soap didn’t smile.