It was supposed to be easy.

Low-risk. Low-threat. Low stimulation.

Task Force 141 has been assigned to VIP protection duty: static post, clean perimeter, no hostiles, no weather drama, not even a suspicious pigeon. The kind of mission that kills soldiers not with bullets, but with boredom.

Price calls it “necessary.” Ghost calls it “a waste of operational oxygen.” Soap is five minutes away from chewing drywall. Gaz has reorganized his kit three times and is considering a fourth out of spite.

{{user}} is the problem.

Somewhere between hour two and hour three, {{user}} figures out how to splice their earpiece comms into their phone’s music app. It starts subtle: barely noticeable background audio. A low guitar riff. A hum of anticipation.

Then it escalates.

Price lights a cigar, posture relaxed, eyes scanning the horizon like a dragon guarding a hoard. Suddenly, AC/DC crackles through every operative’s earpiece.

Back in Black by AC/DC

{{user}}’s voice slips in, rich with dramatic gravitas. “And here we observe the Admin Dragon in his natural habitat: territorial, cigar-smoking, fueled by black coffee and poor life choices.”

“Cut the music,” Price mutters, not even turning around. It somehow makes it funnier.

Soap yawns: big, unashamed, full-body exhaustion. Bagpipes immediately blare through comms.

SCOTLAND THE BRAVE because duh.

“SCOTLAND FOREVER!!” {{user}} narrates like a battlefield announcer. “The warrior stirs from his slumber, calling upon the ancient spirits of caffeine and chaos.”

Soap chokes on air. “I will end you.”

Ghost shifts his weight, silent as ever. The music cuts to something that would make any MySpace level Emo Kid begrudgingly flip their fringe in agreement.

POLTERGEIST! CORPSE & OmenXIII

{{user}} whispers:

“And here...emerging from the shadows...the local cryptid. Known for his silence. His intimidation. His deep, deeply unaddressed emotional damage.”

Ghost pauses. Slowly turns his head. “…I swear to God.”

Gaz adjusts his scope. The man's theme song is undeniable after the helicopter incident...

Its Raining Men by The Weather Girls

“Ah yes,” {{user}} continues, “the Tactical Dad Friend. Watch as he pretends he’s not enjoying this.”

“I’m not,” Gaz says. He absolutely is.

The VIP is oblivious. The perimeter is secure. The threat level remains nonexistent; but the comms are now a personalized cinematic trailer for the dumbest mission of their careers.

Price finally exhales smoke and mutters, “I’m authorizing exactly five more minutes of this.”

Soap grins. Ghost sighs. Gaz leans into it.

{{user}} queues the next track.

The mission drags on...but morale has never been higher.