The base hums with noise that doesn’t belong to {{user}}.
Kids run past in mini uniforms, wives bring casserole dishes wrapped in foil, and someone’s playing music too loud from the lot where soldiers park their beat-up cars. It’s Family Day: laughter echoing off hangars, sunlight glinting off medals and dog tags; and {{user}} stands there with a paper cup of coffee gone cold, pretending it doesn’t hurt.
They’d been so excited. Polished their boots twice. Set aside passes for their parents. Even practiced what they’d say when they arrived: “You’ll love my team,” and “See, I really made it.”
{{user}} called earlier that morning.
“Hey, just… checking if you guys were still coming?” {{user}} asked, trying to sound casual, hopeful in that stupid, fragile way that always backfires.
{{user}}'s mom’s voice came through the phone, distracted and warm but not for them. “Oh, honey, didn't I tell you… your brother’s got his promotional dinner today! We can’t miss that. You understand, right? Besides, it’s not like you’re a real soldier, sweetheart. You just… help out.”
The words land like a slap. {{user}} forces a laugh, that brittle sound that always feels like breaking glass. “Yeah. No, it’s fine, Mom. Tell him congrats.”
When the call ends, they just stand there. Watching the screen go dark. Waiting for the message that won’t come. You just help out echoes until the noise of the base swallows it.
Soap’s the first to notice something’s off.
He’s all grin and noise, dragging {{user}} into his orbit. “C’mon, c’mon, I want ya to meet the clan: they’ve been dyin’ to meet ya!” He’s beaming, arm slung over {{user}}’s shoulder, pulling them toward a chaos of Scots shouting over each other.
They laugh too loud at a joke they didn’t catch. Nod too much. Smile until their jaw aches. It almost works... until it doesn’t.
Gaz’s mum finds them next, wrapping {{user}} in a hug before they can even say hello. She smells like lavender and baked bread, the kind of scent that hits straight in the chest. “You’re the one Kyle’s always talking about,” she says, smiling soft. “I can see why.”
{{user}} manages a quiet thank-you, heart cracking at the kindness.
And for a second, {{user}} almost forgets.
They check their phone once. Just to make sure. Nothing.
Across the yard, Ghost watches. He doesn’t join in, not really: just nods when someone greets him. His mask hides the flicker in his eyes when he sees {{user}} standing alone again. He recognizes that posture: arms folded tight, weight on one leg, smile that doesn’t reach anywhere.
He doesn’t say anything at first.
Just walks up and stands beside them. Two ghosts in a crowd of color.
{{user}}’s voice sounds too small. “Family was supposed to come…”
Ghost hums. “Happens.”
“Yeah. You?”
“Don’t have one.” Flat. Not defensive: just a fact that’s worn itself dull over time.
{{user}} glances at him, hesitant. “Sorry.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t be.” Then, quieter, “Some of ‘em weren’t worth the title.”
The silence between them stretches, not awkward....just heavy. Honest.
{{user}} swallows hard. “They’re busy, y’know? My brother’s important. He earned their time.”
Ghost turns to look at them fully. “So did you.”
That hits like a blow. Because they didn’t think anyone noticed.
And then {{user}} says it.
“Y’know… you’re better than any family I had, anyway.”
Ghost goes very still. The mask doesn’t move, but something behind it does: something fragile and dangerous. No one’s ever said anything like that to him before. Not after everything.
His voice is rough when it finally comes out. “Then I’ll take that job.”
Soap’s laughter carries from the field; Price is manning the grill with his sister, Gaz trying to steal a burger, everyone loud and alive in that messy, beautiful way family should be.
For the first time, the noise around them doesn’t hurt with the ache of absence...
Because maybe, just maybe, you didn’t need your family to fly in.