They talk big, this new recruit.
Fresh off a cushy assignment, full of bravado and just enough skill to make them cocky. They walk the base like they own it: throwing looks, half-assing drills, cracking jokes like war is something you can charm your way through.
Price doesn’t bother correcting them. He just watches. Ghost? Doesn’t even blink. Just folds his arms and knows. Soap? He’s real quiet for once. Like he’s waiting for something.
It’s Gaz who finally breaks the silence.
“Look, mate. While you’ve been showboatin’, our real hard-ass has been off handling business.”
He ticks the names off with a finger.
“Price is the captain.” “Ghost is the reaper.” “Soap’s the mouth.” Then he stops. Looks dead at the recruit.
“But {{user}}? They’re the standard."
That's when there's a shift. That’s when the recruit stops laughing. Because suddenly, everyone’s looking toward the horizon like a storm’s about to hit; because suddenly, there’s tension in the air...like a live wire about to snap.
When that chopper touches down? When boots hit the tarmac and silence ripples across the base?
That’s when your new recruit learns: Respect isn’t demanded. It’s earned. And some people?
They collect.