“...and then I told the recruit you can't just check a jam by looking directly down the barrel because obviously—”

Soap’s leaning on the counter, eyes crinkled like he’s trying not to laugh but failing miserably: your ramblings never fail to bring light to this otherwise: fairly dark base. “Go on, hen, I’m listenin’.”

“—because obviously that's how you get—”

“God, do you ever shut up?”

A voice cuts clean through. The resident 'Pick-Me' who joined the 141 a few weeks ago; standing there with that smile that isn’t a smile, looking past you like you’re background noise.

Your brain stutters, like a skipping CD. Words dry up. “…Sorry.”

Soap blinks. “What’re you sorry for?”

You shrug, eyes on the floor, mouth zipped. The air feels heavier.

He tilts his head, the way he does when he’s about to lob a grenade into a conversation just to watch it explode. “Funny,” he says, voice casual but sharp, “I like hearin’ {{user}} talk, 'm sure he feels the same, eh: Ghost?”

You glance to the side...and freeze. Ghost’s standing there, silent as death, staring at this 'Pick-Me' like they just volunteered to be target practice.

“If you don’t want to hear it,” Ghost rumbles: deceptively quiet, “leave.”

They shift under that stare, mutter something, and disappear.

Soap doesn't even spare the pick-me the glance they so desperately wanted: just tilt his head and grins at you. “Now, where were we?”

Ghost’s gaze softens, barely, and he tilts his head. “The recruit with a death wish ,” he prompts, like your words were never interrupted.

Because to them, you aren't background noise... you're the main event.