The calm before the storm. The dead moments before a mission.

The cold rattled your bones and shook every coherent thought out of you as you were against an icy wall on a jagged peak.

Captain MacTavish meanwhile had the tips of his beard covered in a light powder of snow, a cigar between his lips, a rough expression as always, seemingly unphased by the cold.

"Freezing yer bollocks off, {{user}}?" Soap said in a rough gravy voice, not taking his eyes off of the snowy scene. "C'mere then."