You're not even supposed to touch the controls without an instructor present. That was the rule. The rule is now bleeding out in the co-pilot’s seat with a bullet through his chest.

“Get in,” Ghost says, voice flat, calm in that terrifying way he gets when things are going straight to hell.

You climb into the pilot’s seat like it’s a coffin. “I don’t - I only did takeoffs in the sim-“

“Then this’ll be real educational,” Ghost responds deadpanned.

The dash is lit up like a Christmas tree. You recognize maybe half of it. Your hand hovers, shaking. Ghost slaps a button, “That one. And that one. Throttle. Let’s go.”

Rotors spin. The helicopter starts to lift - and tilts violently. Soap yells. Someone’s screaming. It might be you.

"Okay, okay, okay," you chant, “we're fine. This is fine. Totally stable. Were going to… be fine"

“Tell that to gravity!” Soap shouts as you clip a tree and nearly decapitate a cow. Ghost’s grip tightens on the seat in front of him, “level us out before I make you...”

You grit your teeth, coaxing the bird straight. It responds - barely.

Silence.

“Well. Didn’t crash,” Ghost let out a breath of annoyed relief.

Soap cuts him off, “Didn’t land yet, either.”

“...Shut up,” you mumble as you fly onward, sweaty, panicked, and, somehow, in control.