The clamor of Task Force 141's laughter crashes against the bar walls like artillery fire. Glasses clink, drowning in rowdy toasts and raucous tales of narrow escapes. Your hands grip the counter, knuckles white, as echoes of a past not so distant rumble through your mind. You're a veteran working as a bartender and the noise triggers bad memories.

"Hey," a soft-spoken voice says: Soap. He's leaning slightly over the bar, a silent understanding in his eyes. "You alright? You need a minute?"