The idea had started small, the way all your bad (and sometimes brilliant) ideas did.
You’d been digging through an old box when you found the raggedy remains of the very first Task Force 141 patch you’d ever gotten: threadbare, edges curled, barely recognizable except for the faint outline of the skull; and it hit you: the Task Force has a birthday.
Well, not a birthday, exactly. More like an anniversary. Or maybe a holiday. Honestly? It didn’t matter what you called it: “141 Day” just sounded right. One part birthday cake, one part Christmas spirit, one part somber Memorial Day toast to those who never made it back. And if you were the only one who really celebrated it, so what? Someone had to keep track of the milestones.
This year, you’d decided the gifts had to be perfect. Shirts. Not just any shirts, but ones that screamed the essence of each man: something they’d scoff at, laugh at, maybe roll their eyes at, but secretly wear under their jackets. You’d spent hours thinking about it, sketching ideas, trying to distill years of quirks, habits, and that inexplicable madness that made each of them who they were into a single, relatable statement.
Ghost: “My blood type? Boiling.” Short, sharp, no-nonsense. It suited him too well. You’d half-joked that if anyone cut him open, fire would pour out instead of blood. He hadn’t denied it. • Soap: “Caffeine is not enough anymore, I need to chew on a power line.” Because if unhinged energy could be bottled, his would be classified as a biohazard. He’d laugh the loudest when he saw it. • Gaz: “Normalize booing in the workplace.” Your tribute to the man’s steady sense of humor, his ability to roast everyone equally and still be the most normal one in the room. He’d claim to hate it, but you knew he’d wear it constantly. • Price: “My love language is combat.” Honestly, you’d outdone yourself with that one. It wasn’t just a shirt: it was scripture. You’d be shocked if he didn’t frame it like a family heirloom. • Roach: “Just a roach hiding under God’s fridge, and brother he’s got a shoe.” Because what else could you possibly put for him? Dark humor was the only way to cope with half the things that earned him his callsign, and you could practically hear his laugh echoing when you’d come up with it.
By the time the shirts were finished, the back room at the bar looked nothing like a normal night out. Streamers hung crookedly from the ceiling, balloons bobbed near the low-hung lights, and the table was lined with bottles that gleamed in the dim, warm glow. In the center sat a homemade cake, modest but perfectly imperfect, a single candle flickering for those who hadn’t made it back. You’d done your best to make it look casual, like the guys had wandered into a bar and stumbled onto a regular Friday night, but every tiny detail was deliberate: a celebration hidden in plain sight.
You double-checked everything.
The front door swung open. Laughter and casual chatter spilled in from the street outside, and when Price, Soap, Ghost, Gaz, and Roach walked in: you lifted the stack of shirts high, with a bright smile.