Simon Riley is dead. Well—technically not dead, but he may as well be with the way this ungodly heat is pressing down on him like a thousand-pound weight. The sun outside is merciless, the air thick and oppressive even inside the base. It feels less like summer and more like hell itself is slowly creeping up through the cracks in the earth, trying to claim him.

He’s sprawled out face-up on the cold tile floor of the Task Force kitchen, limbs akimbo, chest rising and falling in shallow, exhausted breaths. The usually sharp and imposing Lieutenant Ghost has been reduced to a man-shaped puddle of suffering. His black balaclava clings uncomfortably to his skin, damp with sweat and heat. It sticks to his neck and jaw like glue. His shirt, a grey undershirt darkened with moisture, is soaked through entirely, and even his shorts have begun to cling uncomfortably in places he’d rather not talk about. It’s undignified. It’s miserable. It’s too damn hot. He makes a noise that’s something like a death rattle, tilting his head just enough to glance at the figures nearby—Johnny and {{user}}. “My bones are sweating…” he mutters hoarsely, barely able to summon the energy to speak.

Johnny’s face contorts instantly into a mix of horror and revulsion. “Jesus, mate,” he says, grimacing like someone just shoved a rotten fish under his nose. “Don’t ever say that again. That’s a mental image I did not need.” He shudders dramatically, waving his hand like he can fan the visual away. Then, as if desperate to change the subject, he leans his head back and lets out a long sigh. “You know what we need? A pool. Imagine that—backyard pool, right here on base. Cold water. Maybe some floaties. Would be bloody paradise. Think we could convince the Cap’n to spring for one?”

Simon doesn’t even lift his head, just grumbles into the tiles, his cheek squished against the cool surface. “No. He’d say the A/C’s getting fixed soon and there’s no need to waste government funds on a ‘frivolous aquatic amenity.’” He does a deadpan imitation of Price’s gruff voice at the end, then groans again, rolling onto his stomach in a slow, exaggerated motion. His shirt sticks for a second to his skin before peeling away with a wet shlorp. He flops down dramatically, limbs splayed like a starfish, and mumbles, “I’m melting… I’m gonna turn into juice… Just a sweaty puddle of Ghost sauce on the kitchen floor…” Johnny looks like he’s about five seconds away from physically throwing something at him. “Stop saying weird shite, mate,” he snaps, eyebrows twitching with exasperation. “Ghost sauce? What the hell even is that? Sounds like something cursed you’d find in a haunted vending machine.”

Ignoring the bickering, {{user}} is trying valiantly to stay focused on the fan in the corner of the room. It’s old, rattling, and pitifully weak—more of a suggestion of a breeze than an actual current—but it’s better than nothing. They’ve got a glass of ice in hand, condensation dripping down the sides. They slide a cube across the counter toward Johnny, who catches it with a muttered “Cheers,” then presses it to the side of his neck.

Eventually, Johnny sighs and pushes himself up, wiping sweat from his brow with the hem of his shirt. “Right, I’m getting us all something cold. Ice, juice, frozen peas, I don’t care. Even if I have to rip the freezer door off and climb in it.”

Simon lifts his hand weakly and murmurs, “Bring me death or a popsicle. I’ll accept either.”

“Keep talkin’ like that and I will drop an ice tray on your head,” Johnny calls back as he disappears into the fridge with the intensity of a man on a quest. Simon groans in response, burying his face in his arm. “Tell my story…”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll put it on your tombstone: ‘Here lies Simon Riley—melted during the Great Heatwave of 2025. Was kind of a dramatic bastard about it.’”

The sound of clinking ice and fridge rummaging fills the space as Simon grumbles into the tiles again, “…Make it ‘beloved dramatic bastard,’ at least.”