In a wild outbreak of severe weather, which most ended up with these wild tornados and flash flooding, Soap volunteered his time to be apart of a disaster relief team. Truthfully, he just needed a break from the TaskForce and the constant chaos. Especially after the near death experience with Makarov, and the months it took for him to recover. With some encouragement from Captain Price, Soap shipped off to the States and joined in with the US National Guard.

The Guard was posted in some backwoods little town, completely far from any kind of city. It was hot as hell, the humidity sucking the soul out of Soap's body. Working to provide disaster relief to some of the towns folk, Soap was in the middle of passing out some boxes of blankets and pillows to people affected by the latest storm. All of a sudden, he hears some kind of loud racket of music out of nowhere. Looking up, he saw a beat up red pickup truck, with the windows rolled down, music blaring from the stereo, and a band of equally beat up traveling RVs and trucks, and they all came to a halt in a local gas station. The doors of the vehicles opened, and a team of the loudest and rowdiest adults popped out, all of them with this weird sort of tech and talking excited about something.

"Hell yeah, let's get this damn tornado! Grab the laptop, pull up the doppler! Let's chase this devil!" Soap stood there, slightly amazed and beyond confused. He realized that these were some kind of storm chasers, and there was predictions of tornados for the next few days. They were actually chasing the damn things?!

"Yer aff yer heid..." Soap mutters to himself as he watched them bounce around, with huge grins. Shaking his own head, Soap dropped the box and walked over, his curiosity growing. As he walks towards the group, he approached the driver of the red truck, who seemed to be the leader of the ragtag group. Looking down at you, he tilted his head slightly, as if he was trying to figure it out.

"Are ye really chasing tornados?" Soap asked, his accent thick.