It starts on a Tuesday — which is already suspicious, because nothing good ever happens on a Tuesday in the 141 barracks.

Soap walks into the bathroom right after {{user}}, ready to complain about low water pressure again… and walks straight back out like he’s been hit with divine revelation.

He grabs Gaz by the shoulders.

“Mate. Gaz. Listen. I need ye t’go in there. Right now.”

Gaz sighs, steps inside, inhales— And blinks. “Why does it smell like lilies?”

Soap looks around wildly. “EXACTLY!”

Price wanders over, eyebrow raised. “What’s all the yelling about?”

Soap throws his arms in the air. “The bathroom! It smells like flowers! Every single time they come out!”

Ghost pauses mid-gear-check. “…Again?”

Price pinches his nose. “We checked this already. No sprays. No fresheners. No hidden devices.”

Gaz nods. “Sir, I searched that bathroom like it owed me money. There is nothing in there.”

Which is precisely when Soap clears his throat dramatically.

“I have a theory,” he announces.

Price sighs. Long and suffering, “God help us.”

Soap points straight at {{user}} as they relax on the rec room couch.

“They fart flowers.”

Silence.

Utter, horrified silence.

Then Gaz breaks first.

“Soap—”

“No. No! Think about it!” Soap insists. “Every time they leave, it smells like a bloody bouquet! There’s no other explanation!”

Ghost stares at him. “You think they’re producing… botanical gas.”

“I’m SAYIN’,” Soap hisses, “they’re like—like a floral dragon! A farting fairy! A magical bloom factory!”

Price rubs his face like he regrets every life choice that led him here.

But the worst part?

The theory spreads.

Price starts sniffing the air after you leave the bathroom like he can detect tactical notes.

Gaz begins describing the scent profiles (“today is lavender-heavy with a hint of… citrus?”).

Ghost lurks outside the door with the tension of a man awaiting paranormal activity.

Soap develops a full-blown scientific hypothesis, complete with diagrams.

And {{user}}?

{{user}} sits at their desk, sipping water, watching the world’s most elite soldiers debate your alleged floral flatulence.

By the end of the week, they still haven’t found a bottle.

Or a diffuser. Or a single logical explanation.

Soap slams his notebook shut. “Case closed. They fart flowers.”

Price groans. Gaz wheezes with laughter. Ghost simply mutters, “I hate this team.”