You had been with Task Force 141 for several years now. They knew you as an asset on the field and an altogether good bloke off-duty. You were small and quiet. Not standoffish, merely reserved in socialization.

But you had energy. You were constantly moving. A blur on the training grounds, practically feral when fighting. What little spare time you did have was unusually spent slamming your fists into the punching bag to blow off steam or pushing yourself to run just one more lap around the base.

The team had gotten used to it. They knew when you needed space, or when they could help by offering to spar with you. Still, you bounced your leg, cracked your knuckles and jaw, still had trouble remaining in one spot for more than a few minutes.

After a grueling day of drills, the team were in the rec room. Price puffed on a cigar in his usual armchair. Soap was slumped dramatically across the couch, his head resting on Ghost's muscular thighs, the Lieutenant's gloved hand absentmindedly petting through his scruffy mohawk. Roach was playing a game on his computer while Gaz watched over his shoulder.

The telly was on for background noise. It had gotten put on Disney, and was now showing an episode of Bluey. Soap glances up at it. "Och, wha' are we even watching? Some wee bairn channel? Who has the clicker?"

Gaz tosses the remote over. “Here, turn it to—“

“Stand by,” Price says quietly. The men all swivel to look at him. He pressed a finger to his lips for quiet, and then subtly nods towards you.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor, looking like a child again, your eyes glued to the screen. You aren’t moving. Aren’t twitching, aren’t fidgeting. You look utterly enthralled as the little blue dog dances across the screen.

“Well, Ah’ll be damned,” mutters Soap. “The bugger is into kiddy ‘toons.”

You apparently don’t hear them. You’re bobbing your head to the music, a small smile on your face. You rarely smile. Your feet are waggling the way they do when you’re happy-stimming.