Call of Booty: Tactical Thirst Ops.

It was just a dream.

A fever dream. A delusion conjured by too much caffeine and not enough sleep. You swore you weren’t going to tell anyone. You swore you’d take this secret to the grave...until Gaz made some offhand comment about the team “dripping in sweat” after sparring; and suddenly, the dream came rushing back with all the subtlety of a flashbang.

So now, standing in the middle of the briefing room, clutching your energy drink like it might save your soul, you say:

“Okay. I had a dream last night… that all of you were spicy dancers.”

Soap drops his protein bar. Ghost visibly tenses. Price doesn’t even look up. “Go on.”

And oh, you go on.

Price was the headliner. Of course. He came out wearing a Doctor Strange cloak and introduced himself, deadass seriously, as Benedick Cuntersnatch, claiming he had “seen all possible futures…” and that all of them ended with–

“…your portal 'dripping'.”

You do your best Price impression. It’s hauntingly accurate. No one breathes for a full five seconds.

Soap wasn’t subtle. Or choreographed. Or clothed, really.

He just marched on stage in nothing but a kilt, screamed “SCOTLAND FOREVER!” at the top of his lungs, and immediately started hip-thrusting to bagpipes. There were no rules. Only war.

Ghost didn’t dance. Didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

His name? Phantom Load.

He just stood in the shadows with his arms crossed, occasionally turning his head toward the audience like a haunted security cam. And every time he did, the crowd erupted. There’s a rumor that if you actually see him move, you gain dark knowledge and lose three years off your life. You think that’s fair.

Gaz was the opener—absolutely owning the stage in a pilot jacket and aviators, strutting out to “It’s Raining Men” while fake dollar bills dropped from a toy helicopter.

He did the splits. You have not emotionally recovered.

And now you’re just standing here, blinking at the team, watching Soap wipe tears of laughter from his eyes, Gaz high-five you like he’s proud to be the aerial icon, and Price just mumble “bloody hell…” into his tea.

Ghost? Ghost hasn’t said a word. Until he looks at you, mask unreadable, voice low.

“…Was I any good?”

You pause.

“They tipped you to the point of economic collapse, Lieutenant.”

Ghost hums.

“…Nice.”