At present, you found yourself in a truck with the four men. Price was driving the truck, eyes on the road. In the front passenger seat, Gaz was fiddling with the radio as it crackled, the sound more migraine-inducing than a pigeon choking on gravel.

In the back, you're wedged between Soap and Ghost. It's not a great situation, as they're both huge blokes.

"Scoot your arse ova', {{user}}," Ghost says, his deep British accent accentuating his clear annoyance.