It was meant to be a straightforward mission—standard infiltration and intel extraction on the Inner Circle. The kind of op the 141 could do in their sleep.

The briefing room was dim, lit only by the flicker of overhead fluorescents and the soft blue glow of tactical screens. A large table sat in the center, cluttered with satellite images, floorplans, and mission blueprints. Captain Price stood at the head of it, fingers brushing the brim of his worn boonie hat as he outlined the operation. His voice was calm, steady—a tone forged through years of command.

Around the table stood the rest of the team: Ghost, silent and hulking in the shadows with his skull mask catching the low light; Gaz, arms folded, eyes scanning every detail with razor-sharp focus; Soap, leaning forward with that ever-present restless energy, practically vibrating with anticipation. And {{user}}, shoulder-to-shoulder with them, equally locked in on the mission ahead.

As the last of the plans were laid out and the objectives confirmed, Price looked up from the diagrams and scanned the room.

“Well,” he said, exhaling, “that’s the plan sorted. Now…” His eyes flicked across the group—then quickly darted away from Ghost’s. “Who’s flying the helo?”

There was a beat of silence.

“I will,” Ghost said, voice low and gravelly.

A pause.

Then—

“No!” came the chorus from Soap, Gaz, {{user}}, and Price—sharper than gunfire, unanimous and immediate.

Ghost straightened slightly, shoulders tensing, the rejection hitting harder than expected. The memory was still fresh in everyone’s minds.

The last time he flew a helicopter had been… an unmitigated disaster. Price’s treasured boonie hat had been ripped from his head by the violent downdraft and lost to the wind. Soap and {{user}} had been white-knuckled, clinging to the interior rigging for dear life, while Gaz—poor bastard—had actually fallen out. Only the safety rope tied to his harness saved him, flailing in the air until Price managed to haul him back in. Seconds later, the helicopter had careened into a pine tree, splintering the rotors and leaving them to hike the rest of the way out on foot.

They hadn’t let Ghost behind the controls of anything since. Not even a truck—which, to be fair, was a separate disaster altogether.

Ghost scowled under the mask. “Why the hell not?” he snapped, his voice edged with frustration, like a storm brewing just beneath the surface. He sounded almost like a sulking teenager—if that teenager were six-foot-four and armed to the teeth.

He turned to {{user}}, his literal girlfriend, his gaze sharp, eyes narrowing beneath the black smudge of his eye sockets.

“You agreeing with them?” he asked, more accusation than question.