Downtime always feels fake.

Too quiet. Too clean. Like the universe holding its breath and daring them to mess it up.

They’re sprawled around the recroom, half-geared, half-bored. Price is nursing a mug of something strong enough to peel paint, eyeing the team like a man considering arson as a morale booster. “Well,” he says eventually, casual as a match strike. “Could always try team-building exercises.”

Soap groans immediately. “Sir, if you say ‘trust fall,’ I’m deserting.” Ghost snorts from where he’s leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. “Last team outing ended with us pulling rank on a civilian cop and leaving town early.” Gaz shrugs from the table, spinning a pen between his fingers. “He’s not wrong. But also… we’re all wound tight as hell.”

Silence. That loaded, buzzing kind.

That’s when {{user}} speaks up, like it’s nothing. Like it’s obvious. “What about a rage room?” They all look at you. “A what,” Soap says slowly, suspiciously.

You explain. Private rooms. Old TVs. Plates. Bottles. Baseball bats. Protective gear. Controlled chaos. You mention, almost offhand, that you’re a cardholder. That this is kind of your thing when things get loud upstairs.

That’s when the laughter hits.

That’s where you disappear to?

But the more you talk, the quieter they get. No danger. No consequences. No cleanup except sweeping glass. Just noise. Just release. By the time you’re in the city, it feels like a bad idea they’ve all already committed to.

At first, it’s a joke.

Soap shatters a bottle and whoops. Gaz goes for accuracy, neat strikes, controlled force. Price takes out a printer with surgical precision. Ghost smashes a monitor once, twice, then pauses like he’s embarrassed by how good it felt. They’re laughing. Posturing. Not really in it.

You don’t hesitate.

You grab a bat like it personally wronged you and swing. WHAM. The sound is obscene. Glass spiderwebs, then collapses. You hit it again before it finishes falling. WHAM. WHAM.

“You’re doing it wrong,” you say, voice casual through the helmet, breath already heavy. “You’re thinking too much.”

WHAM.

Soap freezes mid-laugh. Gaz’s grin drops. Price straightens. Ghost stills completely.

“This,” you snap, obliterating the TV frame, plastic exploding outward, “is for extending deployment when everyone was already running on fumes.” WHAM. The screen caves. Sparks pop. You toss the bat aside and snatch a bottle. “And this?” You fling it high, higher than necessary, then smash it out of the air with a metal rod. Shards rain down like angry confetti. “This is for asshats in cushy offices pretending we still fight with sticks and stones.”

Silence. Thick. Charged.

Then Ghost moves. He doesn’t posture this time. He steps up beside you, grabs a sledgehammer, and swings like he means it. No pause. No restraint. WHAM.

Soap lets out a feral laugh and suddenly he’s in it, screaming something unintelligible as he takes out a stack of plates in one brutal sweep. Gaz abandons precision entirely, crowbar rising and falling, rhythm turning sloppy and real. Price exhales, long and heavy, then drives his bat through a cabinet door like he’s settling a personal score.

The room explodes into noise.

For once, nobody’s careful. For once, nothing shoots back.

When it ends, it’s messy. They’re breathing hard. Leaning on knees. Standing in the wreckage like kids who knocked over a beehive and lived.

Soap looks around, stunned. “We should’ve done this years ago.” Gaz wipes his face, still smiling. “Yeah. Yeah, we really should have.” Price chuckles, low and genuine. “Next round’s on me.” Ghost glances at you through the visor, something unreadable but soft in the way his shoulders finally drop.

Downtime still feels fake.

But for once? It feels earned.