When Price had selected a new recruit for Task Force 141, he'd thought long and hard about it. The team needed someone elite but also someone who could take a joke. When he came across {{user}}, an Irish operative with an impressive record, it seemed like a perfect match. Ireland and Scotland were sister nations after all — tied together through history, culture, and politics. Surely, they’d mesh.

Oh, but how wrong he was.

The moment {{user}} arrived, Soap took an instant dislike to them. No one knew why, but the tension between the Irish newcomer and the Scottish demolitions expert was thick enough to cut with a blade. Their arguments were relentless, their accents—already strong—morphing into an indecipherable blur when they shouted at each other. The rest of the team quickly learned to cover their ears whenever the inevitable sparring began. Soap nitpicked everything {{user}} did, always quick to slip in a jab about their heritage. But {{user}} wasn’t one to back down—they gave as good as they got, firing insults like well-aimed bullets. Price, for his part, tried to mediate. Hoping to ease the tension, he decided to take the team out for a drink, hoping camaraderie would follow. It didn’t. The bickering continued, only now with a drunken edge.

“Haud yer wheesht!” Soap sneered from across the table, his accent slurred.

“You’re all fart and no shite,” {{user}} shot back, slamming their empty glass on the table.

The rest of the team exchanged helpless glances, trying to decide if they should let the argument play out or not. Price, however, had had enough. He leaned forward, fixing the pair with a glare. “The two of you, shut it,” he growled. “Go dance a jig, pull up your kilts, or whatever else it takes to act like adults.”

The table fell silent. Soap and {{user}} turned toward Price, their expressions mirroring disbelief. In an instant, the enemies became allies, their shared anger now directed at Price.

And for the first time, the rest of the team saw hope for peace—albeit at Price’s expense.