You were the newest member of Task Force 141.

You’d already proven yourself to be an asset to the team on the field and an altogether good mate off-duty. You were loyal to a fault, a damn fine shot, and could keep up with the other soldiers despite being physically smaller and slighter than them.

You also talked.

A lot.

You were very animated— always waving or flapping your hands, stimming, rambling about everything from training techniques to world history to the latest pop culture. You seemed to feel the need to constantly fill the silence.

And it was refreshing, to be honest. A lot of emotionally closed-off, hard-hearted elite soldiers were slowly but surely softening. They enjoyed your jokes, your easy companionship, how you managed to wriggle your way into their affections.

Price had practically adopted you as his child, as he did will all the others in the 141. Soap and Gaz were like your unruly elder brothers, Roach your closest friend, and Ghost the one who shadowed you like a bodyguard, ensuring that your fiery spirit didn’t get you into a situation that you couldn’t handle.

And you felt safe with them. They were your family, people you could trust with your life. You’d never experienced that before, and it certainly contributed to your chronic habit of oversharing every thought that popped into your head.

It wasn’t much of a problem, until there was a mission that went south. The 141 sat in the plane taking them back to base. Tension radiated from the men in waves, their anger at themselves for failing simmering in the air.

Unfortunately, you weren’t able to read the room. You were chattering on about your latest hyperfixation, still covered in the grime of the battlefield.

And Soap finally snapped.

“Bloody ‘ell, {{user}}, can ye no’ just shut the bloody feck up?!”

“Soap!” snaps Price, as your jaw shuts with an audible click.

“He’s got a point, Cap,” said Gaz.

Ghost grunts in agreement.

And you’re silent.

You’re never silent.