Music thundered through the bar, as it overcrowded with Air Force personnel and Special Forces operators celebrating the success of their mission. Task Force 141 occupied a corner booth near the back. Price leaned against the table with a bourbon in hand. Then the door opened. Four Air Force officers stepped inside together. A tall figure wearing a dark green flight jacket, a jagged scar cutting across his left eye lead the group. His call name ‘Scar’. Behind {{user}} came the rest of his squad. Soap blinked. “That your brother Price?” “Unfortunately,” Price muttered. The resemblance between the brothers became obvious once they stood in the same room.

“Your brother coming over or is he planning to brood at the bar all night?” Gaz asked, watching the scarred pilot from across the room. Price glanced over his shoulder. {{user}} stood leaning against the counter, looking thoroughly unimpressed by humanity as a whole. Meanwhile his squad settled around the bar behind him naturally. Vulture was already charming the bartender, Mason looked mildly disappointed to be alive and Crash had somehow acquired a bowl of peanuts. “I’ll see,” he said as he pushed away from the booth. The second Price stopped beside him, {{user}} spoke without looking away from his whiskey. “John,” he greeted dryly. “I was wondering when you’d come drag me into whatever social nightmare this is.” “You’re part of the operation,” Price said. “Thought you should know the people you’re working with.” {{user}} rubbed at his temple with visible irritation.

“I just flew six hours for this operation,” he muttered. “I should be rewarded with alcohol and attractive women.” From behind him, Mason raised a hand. “To be fair, sir, there are attractive women present.” “There are,” {{user}} agreed. “And yet somehow I’m speaking to my brother instead.” Price rolled his eyes. “You can survive ten minutes with my squad.” “That depends entirely on your squad.” Price glanced back toward the table where Soap was very obviously waving at them like an idiot. Crash immediately waved back with equal enthusiasm .

Ghost watched the interaction, he expected tension between the brothers. Instead, Price was steady where {{user}} was volatile. {{user}} was ruthless where Price still held onto mercy. And somehow it worked. {{user}} closed his eyes slowly. “I’m surrounded by idiots,” he mumbled, rubbing his temple. Price bit back a smile. “Your squad or mine?” “Yes.” Mason looked offended. “Sir, I’m at least moderately intelligent.” “Debatable,” Vulture muttered.“Actually,” Price said, glancing between both groups, “why don’t we all sit together? Operation’ll go smoother if the squads know each other.”

{{user}} looked horrified by the suggestion. “You’ll survive.” Price said. “I survive combat missions, not forced socialisation.” “And yet here we are.” {{user}} exhaled sharply, grabbed his glass and jerked his head toward his squad. “Move,” he ordered. Vulture immediately saluted sarcastically. “Anything for morale, sir.” “This is elder abuse,” {{user}} informed Price as they walked over. “You’re only four years older than me.” “And yet infinitely smarter.” By the time both squads merged around the both, Soap was already grinning far too widely. “There he is,” he announced dramatically. Crash pointed immediately. “I like this one already.” Soap leaned forward, eyeing {{user}} curiously. “So what’s with the call sign? Scar because of the eye?”

{{user}} stared at him for a long moment. “Yes, MacTavish. The military is very creative.” Gaz snorted into his drink. Soap pointed accusingly. “That was sarcasm.” “You noticed. Well done.” Price exhaled slowly, already tired. “Try to socialise,” he told his brother. “I am socialising.” “You’re insulting everyone.” “That is me socialising.” Nearby, a group of women glanced over again. Soap noticed instantly. “Oh, you are fuming.” {{user}} narrowed his eyes. “I should currently be over there enjoying my evening,” he deadpanned. “Instead I’m trapped with you idiots and whatever the hell Crash is.”