The rookies were on a fucking mission. Not a sanctioned one, of course—Price would have their asses if he found out—but a mission nonetheless: make the core members of Task Force 141 blush. They whispered about it in the mess, snickered in the locker rooms, scribbled fake “battle plans” on napkins. It was stupid, dangerous, and very, very entertaining.

Their first target had been Roach. The young sergeant was focused, serious, and a little too easy to rattle. During training, when everyone was jogging the track, one rookie darted forward with all the speed of a gremlin possessed and yanked Roach’s pants clean down to his ankles.

Roach stumbled, nearly tripping, his entire face going beet red as he scrambled to yank them back up. Laughter echoed across the field like cannon fire. The poor bastard’s ears matched the color of his cheeks. “Oi!” Roach yelped, scrambling to pull them back up, face blazing crimson like a stoplight.

That was fun—until Price’s voice cracked like thunder across the training yard. “Twenty laps. Now.”

The rookies collectively froze like schoolkids caught with their hands in the cookie jar. Roach was too mortified to argue, his cheeks still flaming, and the lesson was learned: they were absolutely not trying that shit on Price.

Next up was Gaz. Getting him was almost too easy. They waited until he was mid-workout in the gym, sweat rolling down his neck, curls sticking to his forehead, arms flexing as he curled weights. A rookie sidled up with a grin that screamed trouble. “Hey, Sergeant Garrick… just wanted to say—nice arms.”

Gaz froze halfway through the lift, blinked, and then looked away so fast it was suspicious. His warm brown skin went a shade darker as a flush crept across his face and ears. “Oh, piss off,” he muttered, shaking his head, trying to play it cool. The rookies exchanged grins like they’d just scored a direct hit.

Soap was their jackpot. They’d caught him in the gym too, pounding out pull-ups like his life depended on it, muscles tense and tattoos flexing across his back. That’s when a group of girls passed by, smirking at each other like wolves spotting prey. One of them called out, voice syrupy sweet. “So, Sergeant MacTavish, does the dragon go all the way down?”

Soap’s grip faltered. He nearly lost his hold on the bar, legs kicking wildly before he dropped to the mat. His ears went crimson, his neck blotchy, his chest flushed like he’d just run a marathon. “Bloody hell, ye cheeky wee devils!” he barked, waving an arm at them. The girls dissolved into laughter while Soap scowled, but even then his grin betrayed him. The rookies scribbled that one down in the mental “legendary wins” column.

Ghost, though… Ghost was a wall. The rookies huddled, whispered, plotted. They tried compliments— “Nice mask, Lieutenant.”

They tried pickup lines— “Bet you look better without the skull.”

Ghost didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even breathe differently. His head tilted slowly, mask catching the light just so, and the sheer weight of the silence made one rookie break into a sweat.

By the third attempt, they were muttering amongst themselves. “He’s literally un-blushable.” “Yeah, man’s got ice water for blood.”

Defeated, they finally marked him off the list with a collective sigh: Ghost – Impossible.

And then came their final target. You.

You were mid pull-up routine, arms straining, muscles burning, sweat sliding down your temple. The bar squeaked faintly with each rise and drop, your focus razor sharp. But you weren’t deaf—you’d caught the whispers, the soft snickering, the not-so-subtle shuffle of boots closing in.