To say that {{user}} and Ghost didn’t get along was putting it lightly. Their first joint op had nearly ended in friendly fire, on each other. Arguments over comms, undermining calls, mutual glares across briefing rooms. Everyone on base learned fast: do not pair those two. So naturally, Price did. “Forced exposure,” he’d said with a cigar between his teeth. “Either you two kill each other, or you sort it out. Either way, one less headache for me.” Somehow, over weeks of missions, cold nights, worse food, and firefights shoulder-to-shoulder, the tension wore down. They didn’t like each other, not really, but they no longer sparked like live wires in the same room. Ghost stopped sighing when she entered, and {{user}} stopped snapping at everything he said. It wasn’t friendship. But it was progress.

Which made it the perfect time for a prank.

Soap had floated the idea, offhand, one morning. “You know what’d be good for morale?” he said, eyes flicking toward {{user}}. “Making the lieutenant a little...less composed.” She’d raised an eyebrow. “Go on.” It spiralled from there, a bowl, some flour, and some well-practised acting. The key was subtlety. Just enough of a performance to lure Ghost into a moment of misjudgment.

They picked a mixing bowl from the base’s half-stocked kitchen and filled it nearly to the brim with plain white flour. Then added a few props, a metal spoon, an open bag of sugar, a stick of butter softening on a plate. Believable. {{user}} positioned herself in front of the bowl and began the act. Hands on either side. A frown. A little tension in her shoulders. She gave it a small tug, then again, each one slightly more exaggerated, like she was confused. Like something wasn’t right.

“Ugh!” she called out, pretending to tug the bowl again. “Soap, seriously this thing’s stuck! What the hell?!” Soap jumped in. “No way. What’d you do to it? Did you set it on a burner or somethin’? It’s glued to the counter!” {{user}} fake-struggled, rocking the bowl just slightly. “I swear I didn’t touch anything! It won’t budge!” She looked toward the hallway and let her voice pitch high with frustration. “GHOST! Can you come in here for a second?!” Footsteps followed, heavy, measured. Ghost appeared in the doorway, dressed down but still somehow looking like he was on-duty. He took in the scene with a glance: the half-baking mess and {{user}} hunched over the bowl. “What.”

“The bowl won’t move,” {{user}} said, still gently trying to lift it. “I think something’s wrong with the counter or something.” Ghost approached, looking irritated. He stopped beside her, gave the bowl a brief look, then watched her try again. It wasn’t exaggerated, she sold it just enough. Like something sticky might be beneath it. Like it could be true. He sighed. “Move.” She stepped back. He gripped the bowl with both hands and yanked. It came up easily.

WHOOOMPH.

It hit Ghost square in the chest and face, enveloping him in a fog of white powder. It clung to his vest, his gloves, the soft black fabric of his mask. Everything. A startled grunt escaped him. And then came the laughter. Price doubled over, slamming a hand against the wall for support. Gaz actually dropped to the floor, gasping for breath between wheezes. Soap nearly collapsed onto the counter, tears in his eyes. {{user}} was wheezing, nearly crying, trying to keep herself upright. “Oh my God—” Ghost stood there, covered, absolutely motionless. He looked down at himself. Then at {{user}}. Then at Soap.

“You think this is funny, Sergeant?” he asked, voice low and calm, too calm. {{user}} backed up instantly, both hands in the air. “I mean...a little?” He took a step forward. Soap bailed immediately. “Sorry, {{user}}, you’re on your own!” he laughed, sprinting out of the kitchen. Price wiped his eyes. “Best bloody thing I’ve seen all year.” Ghost, trailing flour, kept walking slowly toward her. “Okay, okay! Truce!” She yelped, ducking under his arm and bolting down the hall. From behind, his voice echoed after her. “You’re both dead.”