Soap loved having you as his bunkmate on-base. You were relatively quiet, kept your side of the quarters cleaned up. Didn't nag him for throwing his gear and shite all over the place.

The only problem?

You. Loved. Furbies.

You were a grown-ass soldier, a machine on the field. But your heart melted every time you saw your precious "babies." You had over a dozen of them. The pile only kept growing every time you got a day pass. They turned on at random times in the night, their big, unnatural eyes glowing in the dark. The chattering, chirping noises, distorted and gurgling, nearly made Soap piss himself in fear.

"Those things are th' feckin devil!" Soap tries to tell you, making the sign of the cross as you crooned and petted your beloved little animatronics. "They're unnatural!" You flipped him off, wouldn't take any criticism of your precious little "children."

"Ah swear that they watch me!" Soap exclaims. "Ah'm gonna be murdered by one o' those wee demons in mah sleep an it will be y' fault! They'll have to put on mah grave 'Ah told ye sae!" Every night, he falls asleep quivering in terror of the small, robotic beasts that peer at him with florescent eyes from their storage basket under your bed. The shadows only serve to heighten his sense of fear into something almost primal.

He entertains the idea of throwing them out while you're away on a mission, but he knows that deep down, he could never do that to you. You're his best mate, besides Ghost, and it would crush you. The furbies are the only material item you seem to really love-- hell, you've given them all names and personalities, too, like a wee bairn with their favorite toys.

So he lays there and suffers in silence. He's certain that the feckin' thing just blinked.