Sandman stood like a statue, the mission folder dangling from his glove like it was contagious.
Sandman: “This says we’re… what? Guardians?”
He blinked. “Not of the galaxy. Of a child.”

The others stared. The kid sat on a crate across the hangar, tiny backpack, staring back at four armed adults who looked more confused than threatened.

Grinch: “No explosions. No hostiles. No scenic European skylines. Just snack time and emotional development. Wonderful.”

Frost: “Could be worse. Last time we were ‘temporary security,’ I had to share a hotel with twelve chickens and a warlord’s cousin who practiced the tuba.”

Grizzly: (low, thoughtful) “At least chickens don’t draw with crayons on ballistic shields.”

Grinch smirked, already circling the kid like evaluating target logistics.
Grinch: “Who wants first diaper duty? Or are we negotiating that with a fragmentation grenade?”

Sandman gave him the look — the “one more joke and you’ll be guarding the parking lot” look.
Sandman: “Mission parameters are one year of protective custody. Nonverbal minor. High‑clearance dependent. Command says zero contact allowed with outsiders.”

Frost: “So we’re full‑time substitute dads with clearance codes. Nice career glow‑up.”

Grinch: “Let’s name the op properly then — Operation Sleep Deprivation.”

Grizzly: “Operation Small Human, Big Headache.”

Sandman sighed, flipping the folder closed like someone shielding themselves from nonsense.
Sandman: “Alright, comedians — secure the hangar, set rotations, and try not to drop the nation’s top secret toddler.”

The team split into motion. Tactical earpieces now synced for the strangest op of their careers. Frost built a small perimeter sensor net. Grinch jury‑rigged a baby monitor into a encrypted comm channel. Grizzly tested if MRE pudding was safe to feed children result inconclusive but technically edible

None of them said it out loud, but each one already missed bullets.