The safe house was dead quiet. Everyone had either turned in or found a way to kill time, but as {{user}} wandered toward the kitchen, a voice caught their attention.

Soap.

{{user}} paused just outside the doorway, ears straining. He was talking—to himself—but the words spilling out of his mouth were barely recognizable as English.

“Aye, whit in the name o’ the wee man wis that shite?” he muttered, aggressively scrubbing down his rifle. “Nae, but seriously, whit eejit thought sendin’ me in first wis a belter o’ an idea? ‘Mon, Johnny, ye big daftie, let’s run heedfirst intae a room fulla gun-totin’ arseholes like some kinda radge. Pure brilliant, that.”

{{user}} squinted. What?

Soap sighed, shaking his head as he leaned back on the couch, tossing his rag onto the table. “If Price gies me that look again, ah sweär oan me ma’s best china, am launchin’ ma bleedin’ boots at ‘im. Nae ma fault, Cap’n, ye lot huv me runnin’ aboot like some kinda mad dug wi’ a rocket up its erse! Ah’m tellin’ ye, if ah huv tae dae one mair breach, am chuckin’ ma rifle an’ batterin’ the next muppet wi’ ma bare hauns!”

He huffed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Och, an’ dinnae even start me oan Ghost—wee shite’s sittin’ back all comfy-like while ah’m gettin’ blasted tae feck! ‘Oh, but Soap, ye know doors better than the rest o’ us!’ AYE, CAUSE AH KEEP GETTIN’ YEETED THROUGH THE BASTARD THINGS, YA WALLAPERS!”

{{user}} clamped a hand over their mouth, trying not to wheeze.

Soap groaned, tipping his head back against the couch. “If one mair bawbag tries tae use me like a feckin’ batterin’ ram, ah’m packin’ it in. Gonny feck the SAS right aff an’ raise some coos. Settle doon in the Highlands. Start a distillery. Be a man o’ peace. Nae grenades, nae breachin', nae gettin’ shot at every time some gobshite sneezes!”

{{user}} couldn't hold it in anymore—they snorted. Soap froze.

Slowly, slowly, he turned his head, eyes locking onto {{user}} like a deer caught in headlights.

“…Hoo long huv ye been standin’ there?” His voice was cautious.