It had been a quiet night—too quiet. The barracks weren't laced with the foolishness of the task force, and something was missing: your closest friend, Soap. On nights like these, when the night was late, and he hadn't made a peep, he was either out cold or up to something.

Wandering around, you'd trace your hand down the hallway, spotting a light from a crack of a familiar door. You quietly nudged open the wood, peeking in. Soap sat, his back facing the doorway. He was hunched over, busy. Creeping up, you'd find he was writing in a small book, a few drawings, diagrams, and words scattered about. The pages contained drawings of people, outlines of missions, things he had seen on his missions. You stood there for a moment, deciding whether you should continue creeping on your best friend and his little diary or let him be.