Task Force 141 was not built for boredom.
High-risk ops, impossible odds, missions that didn’t make it onto any record. But right now?
No missions. No deployments. Just drills, maintenance, and the slow crawl of downtime.
{{user}} had been with Task Force 141 long enough to recognize patterns. Long enough to predict them.
It started as a joke.
A scrap of paper. A pen. Idle observation turned into entertainment.
A grid. Five by five.
Things {{user}} had noticed. Things everyone had noticed.
— Soap saying “easy” before doing something very much not easy — Ghost appearing behind someone with no warning — Price starting a sentence like a briefing and ending it like a life lesson — Gaz sighing like he was one inconvenience from early retirement
{{user}} hadn’t meant for it to become anything. Just something to pass the time.
Then—“…you markin’ that?”
Another recruit leaned over {{user}}’s shoulder. “…maybe.”
“Move over.”
One card became two. Two became five. A game. Whispers in the halls. Subtle glances during briefings. There. There—mark that one.
Bets appeared. Cash. Snacks. Favors. Then bigger. Leaderboards. Laminated cards.
They had no idea. The most elite task force in the world—reduced to patterns, habits, and checkmarks. Predictable. Observable.
Winnable.
And then Soap’s curiosity got the better of him. {{user}} noticed the way his eyes flicked toward {{user}}’s desk, casually glancing down whenever he passed. Not too obvious—just enough. A smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He lingered a beat longer than necessary, pretending to tie his boot. His shadow fell over {{user}}’s papers, the pen scratching across the grid drawing his attention like a magnet.
“…what’s this then?”
{{user}} froze.
“…I don’t say ‘easy’ that much.” Soap scoffs.
Silence. “…mark that, ye menace.”
Snickers.
The beginning of the end.
Gaz caught on next. “…why are you all writing when I sigh?” No one answered. That was enough.
Price discovered a card left behind. “…there’s a pool?”
Cash on the table. “Put me down for twenty.” The room broke.
Chaos. Sanctioned chaos.
Then they started cheating. Blatantly. Shamelessly.
Soap: “Easy,” three times in a minute. “Does that count as three or—?” “IT COUNTS AS ONE.” “Ha, nice try!”
Price: starts a sentence like a lecture, stops. “…sir, please finish the sentence.” “…no, I don’t think I will.”
Gaz: someone marks a square when he didn’t sigh. “…I didn’t even—” “Habitual energy.”
Gaz tosses his hands in the air, “I’m being profiled.”
Ghost, silent as ever, prowls around, leaning just out of view, shifting papers, or moving slightly so pens smudge. Subtle enough that no one notices, but enough to throw off a careful mark here and there.
The room buzzed with shouting, arguments, accusations. Soap speedruns bingo. Price watches, amused. Ghost’s tiny interferences make chaos even messier.
This was no longer observation. This was war. A stupid, unnecessary war…with a cash prize.
{{user}}’s pen hovers over the next square. Across the room, Soap opens his mouth again—
“Don’t even think about it—”
“Easy.” Soap whispers, grinning like the devil.
A chorus erupts. Pens slam down. Multiple voices yell, “MARK IT.”
{{user}} sighs, marking the square anyway. This was definitely out of control.