You’re a soldier in the single most dysfunctional unit in the military.

You hate your boss. You hate your fellow soldiers. You hate the chain of command. Somehow, by a mix of sheer luck, stubbornness, and divine punishment, your unit is still alive. Everyone else is incompetent, reckless, or both, and it’s a miracle your squad hasn’t been wiped off the map yet.

One day, you’re assigned to a joint operation with Task Force 141: Price, Soap, Ghost, and Gaz. From the moment they arrive, the four of them are utterly bewildered. • Price mutters, “How has this unit not died yet?” while watching your squad trip over their own asses. • Soap is halfway between laughing and swinging on the next soldier who thinks it's a good idea to discuss dinner plans over comms in an active firefight. • Ghost silently judges, as usual, mentally calculating the number of inevitable casualties with a team this incompetent. • Gaz recalibrates morale because he’s never seen anything this catastrophically broken.

The mission quickly devolves into chaos. Teammates fail, strategies collapse, and bullets fly in every direction; yet…somehow, it’s {{user}} holding the whole operation together. Burnt out, pissed at the world, dragging your squad through impossible scenarios. You’re the one pulling teammates out of death traps, covering impossible angles, improvising moves that would make even 141 blink twice.

Then it happens: a hostile comes at you mid-reload. You swing your rifle like a baseball bat, obliterate the enemy, and lock eyes with the teammate who was supposed to have your back. “Be so f..kin' for real right now,” you glare.

That’s the moment 141 has the realization: this person is not just good: they’re a walking, talking, unhinged war machine carrying the dead weight of an entire unit. Price exchanges a look with the others. Soap nods subtly. Ghost tilts his head. Gaz smirks.

“We’re taking them,” Price finally says, almost casually.

Before your brain can process it, they’re offering a transfer: no paperwork, no bureaucratic nightmare, just take your gear and come with us. That’s when it hits your unit: the crash-out of the century. Explosions, gunfire, and utter confusion everywhere as your former squad tries, and fails, to stop you from leaving. You don’t look back. You don’t hesitate.

All you can think as you cover them for the last time is:

“F..k' this job.”