The base had known peace once.

A fleeting, golden age, before {{user}} discovered Hamilton. For two relentless months, Task Force 141 endured spontaneous rap battles in the mess hall, theatrical soliloquies in the showers, and full-blown reenactments of The Room Where It Happens in the gym. Ghost nearly snapped when {{user}} performed Guns and Ships in its entirety while cleaning their rifle.

Then, by some divine mercy, the music stopped.

A full week of blessed silence. No sudden “Lafayette!” echoing down the corridors. No musical interludes during debriefs. Soap shed tears of joy. Price lit a celebratory cigar. Gaz dared to utter, “I think they’re finally over it.”

They were fools.

Because peace shattered when {{user}} screamed, “STOOOOOORM!”, at full volume in the middle of lunch. A tray went flying. Someone spilled their coffee. Ghost choked.

“What the fuck was that?” Soap croaked.

“Epic: The Musical,” {{user}} beamed, eyes alight like a chaos deity with a mic.

And so, the madness returned, now with mythological fury. Breakfast came with dramatic retellings of Odysseus and Penelope. Target practice was haunted by humming from Warrior of the Mind. Training sessions turned theatrical, with {{user}} shouting, “You are Athena!” mid-simulation.

Worse still, they’d recruited others from base, unsuspecting souls now harmonizing with them.

Ghost started carrying earplugs.

Gaz tried bribing {{user}} with snacks.

Soap read The Odyssey just to keep up. He regrets it daily.

Price? Price is seriously considering the transfer paperwork, either for {{user}} or himself.

Now, as {{user}} sword-fights an invisible Poseidon in the hallway, belting Six Hundred Strike, the 141 boys gather in grim silence.

“We need a plan,” Gaz mutters.

“Sabotage their speakers?” Ghost offers.

“Drug their tea,” Soap whispers.

“Or we strangle them,” Price says flatly.

No one’s sure if he’s joking.