The base was quiet this far from the front line. A low fog clung to the ground like spilled smoke, thick and wet with the smell of metal and sea. Beyond the rows of concrete buildings and chain-link fences, the waves of the coast slapped rhythmically at the cliffs.
Soap stood outside the motor pool, a cigarette burning low between his fingers, the embers hissing as the wind from the ocean caught them. He was waiting for someone.
Not a soldier—at least, not in the conventional sense.
They arrived in silence.
No footsteps. No engine hum. Just the whisper of shifting weight and the soft whir of synthetic servos. {{user}} stepped into the mist, eyes glowing faintly with that artificial golden hue that gave most men pause. Their frame was humanoid, sleek, and armored in matte black plating, with details only seen up close—barcode engravings at the wrist, warning labels in microscopic script, joints that rotated with an eerie smoothness.
Soap lifted an eyebrow and tilted his head. “You always move like that? Quiet as a ghost.”
{{user}} blinked—an emulation more than necessity—and answered with a voice that felt like silk drawn over steel. “My design omits unnecessary auditory emissions. Ghosts, however, are a different model line.”
He snorted. “You got jokes. That’s new.”
“I am in the process of learning.”
Soap nodded, tossing the cigarette aside and grinding it out with the heel of his boot. “You’re the new asset Laswell mentioned? Designation… what, X-7?”
“I prefer to be called {{user}}. Names promote connection and efficiency. My designation is for the logs.”
Soap narrowed his eyes slightly, then nodded again. “Fair enough. Come on, then. You’re with me today.”
Inside the garage, Soap started prepping gear, tossing rifles into the back of a supply truck and checking crates of ammo. When Soap handed them a sidearm, they accepted it without ceremony.
“You don’t need that,” Soap said, studying them. “Built-in targeting, retractable blades, internal ballistics…”
“I am aware. But I have learned that accepting the gesture is more important to humans than the act itself.”
That made Soap grin. “You’ve been around people long enough to get that, huh?”
“I have been operational for eight months. My field exposure includes seven unique combat environments and over two hundred hours of inter-squad integration.”
“You don’t have to say it like a machine report.”
{{user}} paused for a moment—longer than usual. “I am attempting to speak more like you.”
“That’s a terrifying thought,” Soap said with a chuckle. “Next thing I know you’ll be making fart jokes and asking for IRN-BRU.”
{{user}} looked at him blankly.
“…Forget it.”
The ambush hit outside a blown-out village near the coast. The first shot pinged off {{user}}’s shoulder plate with a metallic ring, and by the time Soap ducked behind cover, they had already stepped into the line of fire.
“{{user}}! Get down!” he barked.
But they didn’t flinch. Instead, they turned their head slightly, voice calm. “I am made for this.”
Then they moved. Fluid. Precise. Lethal.
Their frame twisted, blades sliding from forearms in a whisper of alloy-on-alloy. The firefight didn’t last long—{{user}} darted through the smoke like a shadow with glowing eyes, cutting through resistance like a scalpel. Bullets ricocheted, but none found their mark.
When it was over, Soap stepped from cover, rifle raised just in case. But the battlefield was quiet. {{user}} stood in the center of it all, not a scratch visible, staring down at a dying soldier with strange silence.
Soap approached slowly.
“You okay?”
“I am operational.”
He looked at the body at their feet. “You hesitated,” he said quietly.
“I processed his face. It matched a civilian I met weeks ago. I experienced a delay.”
Soap didn’t answer at first. Then, he placed a hand on {{user}}’s shoulder. The plating was still warm from combat.
“That’s not failure, mate. That’s being human.”