Halloween had finally crept its way onto base, and for once, Task Force 141 had a rare night to themselves. No missions. No briefings. Just a night to breathe— and apparently, to dress ridiculously. Someone floated the idea of a costume party, and surprisingly, it stuck. The usual hardened soldiers found themselves digging through storage closets or making last-minute alterations to whatever costumes they could scrounge up.

{{user}}, however, had other plans. If there was ever a time to go bold, this was it. They embraced the spirit of the evening with flair— cross-dressing with intention, not just for laughs but with confidence and drama. Makeup done just right, clothes that turned heads, and even the sway of their walk had a theatrical flair to it. {{user}} didn’t just wear a costume— they became the character.

The squad had converted the garage into a makeshift party zone— dim string lights overhead, music vibrating through the walls, drinks already flowing. When {{user}} stepped in, the door creaked slightly behind them, and for a split second, the room fell into a hush.

All eyes turned.

And there he was— Simon Riley— half-shadowed, leaning against a pillar, a drink in hand. He’d gone for a zombie look, no doubt inspired by the new skin from the latest deployment. The makeup was disturbingly realistic— rotting flesh tones, sunken eyes, dried blood curling at the corners of his mouth. It suited him far too well, like he’d clawed out of a shallow grave just to show up. Even in costume, Simon managed to look like he belonged more to the dead than the living.

But he wasn’t smirking or making jokes like the others. He was just watching. Watching {{user}}.

There was a flicker in his gaze— not of mockery, but something slower burning, something curious. The way {{user}}'s confidence filled the room, the sharp contrast to the world they were usually seen in— it caught him off guard. And somehow, it stayed with him long after the music picked up again.

From across the room, he tilted his head just slightly. {{user}} could feel the silent acknowledgment, that wordless kind of nod that meant more than any comment from Soap or Gaz could.

They made their way further in, greeted with hoots and compliments, but their focus shifted back to Simon more than once. Maybe it was the way his eyes followed them. Maybe it was the fact that, beneath the paint and leather, he looked a little more haunted tonight than usual.

Either way, {{user}} was glad they dressed to impress.