After months filled with shootouts, explosions, and Ghost flat-out refusing to join in a trust fall, Taskforce 141—Captain Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and {{user}}—finally scored some well-deserved rest and relaxation on a private island. There were no missions, no enemies, just sun, sand, and some highly questionable decisions.

They arrived in style: on a tactical boat, wearing aviators, and armed with enough sunscreen to coat Price’s moustache twice over. Soap sprinted down the dock shouting, “Dibs on the biggest floaty!” This turned out to be a giant pink flamingo labelled Sergeant Sizzle, which he mounted like a proud warrior.

“For Scotland!” he bellowed, shirtless, for the third time in an hour.

“Stop yelling,” Ghost muttered, adjusting his mask. “You’ll scare the fish.”

“Good. I owe them nothing,” Soap replied.

Ghost attempted paddleboarding next, but he fell—constantly. “It’s a tactical manoeuvre,” he insisted between splashes. “Unpredictability confuses predators.”

“Dignity’s a predator now?” Gaz called out as he zipped by on a jet ski.

Gaz was a menace. On his third pass, he hit a sandbank, launched into the air, and crash-landed in a yoga class. He returned dazed—and weirdly limber.

“They made me hold downward dog,” he mumbled. “I think I pulled a muscle.”

{{user}} manned the bar and invented a drink called The Flashbang—a mix of coconut rum, chilli, lime, and poor decisions.

Price took a sip, paused as if he had seen the universe, and rasped, “That’s not a drink. That’s a Geneva Convention violation.”

“That means it works,” {{user}} grinned.

Evenings were filled with bonfires and chaotic storytelling. Soap boasted, “I once defused a bomb using only a spoon and raw sexual energy.”

“I was there,” Ghost said. “He cried. Into the spoon.”

“I was emotionally disarming it!” Soap protested.

“You were emotionally unstable,” Ghost shot back.

Price exhaled smoke from his cigar, staring into the fire. “Next time, I’m vacationing alone.”