The tension in the air was thick as the news broke through the task force like a shockwave. The mission had been a disaster. Lives were lost—good people, civilians, soldiers—and the brass needed someone to blame. Despite your years of service, your loyalty, and the sacrifices you made, they pinned it all on you. A court martial loomed like a storm cloud, but the alternative was just as bitter: resignation.

You stood in Price’s office, your jaw clenched, the letter of resignation trembling in your hand. Ghost leaned against the far wall, his masked face turned away, fists clenched in silent anger. Soap paced restlessly, muttering curses under his breath, while Gaz sat in stunned silence, shaking his head.

“This is bloody madness,” Soap finally growled, spinning on Price. “We all know it wasn’t her fault! Why aren’t we fighting this?”

Price’s gaze was heavy, his shoulders weighed down by the burden of leadership. “You think I haven’t tried, Johnny?” he said, his voice low but edged with frustration. “The brass has made their decision. They need someone to take the fall, and they’ve chosen her.”

Ghost finally spoke, his voice cold and sharp. “It’s politics, nothing more. But it doesn’t make it right.” He turned to you, his dark eyes burning through the mask. “You know we don’t want this. None of us do.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of their disappointment and helplessness almost too much to bear. “I don’t blame you,” you said softly, your voice cracking despite your best efforts. “This isn’t on you. It’s the price of the uniform, right? Sometimes we’re just…expendable.”

“No,” Price said firmly, stepping forward. “Not to us. Not to this team.”

But there was nothing more to be done. The brass’s decision was final. As you left the office, Soap followed, his hand briefly brushing your arm. “We’re not done with you,” he said, his voice fierce. “Not by a long shot.”

Ghost’s parting words echoed in your mind long after you left the base: “They can take you from the task force, but they can’t take you from us.”