It starts as a stupid idea.

A five-minute joke. A way to kill time.

Someone drapes a blanket over the coffee table. Someone else adds a pillow. It’s dumb. It’s harmless. It’s over in ten minutes.

Except Soap, who apparently sees potential.

He disappears and comes back with furniture. Not a pillow. Furniture. A chair dragged into the corner, stacked with cushions and reinforced with a suspicious amount of determination. By the time anyone realizes what he’s doing, he’s built himself a fortified watch tower, crouched inside it like he’s defending a perimeter in Fallujah.

Gaz immediately takes this as a challenge.

The couch cushions are removed with surgical precision. Walls go up. An entrance is engineered. He claims territory like a man filing paperwork for squatters’ rights.

Price watches all of this in silence. Then, with a long-suffering sigh and the weight of command, decides morale is morale. His field bedroll appears. A sheet tent is erected. It’s neat. It’s practical. It’s absolutely a command post.

And {{user}} of course you’re the problem.

You’re the nexus. The architect of feathers chaos. You gather every spare blanket like a dragon hoarding linen, crawling through the fort system, laughing, throwing pillows at Soap’s tower mid-construction until it collapses in on itself and he yells something about “structural integrity” like that was ever the point.

That’s when Ghost walks in.

He stops dead in the doorway.

Silence.

The man who has seen war crimes, black sites, and the absolute worst humanity has to offer just stares at the room full of grown soldiers crouched under sheets like feral raccoons.

“What,” he says slowly, “in the fresh hell am I looking at?”

And when he takes a pillow round to the mask with the most un-Ghost-like sound in 141 history? It becomes all out pillow war.