After every grueling mission, when the blood was scrubbed off and the wounds were patched, TF141 had a sacred tradition. It didn’t matter if the enemy base exploded behind them or if Ghost had three new bullet holes in his vest, there was always one thing everyone looked forward to: takeout. Greasy fried chicken, double cheeseburgers, spicy curries so hot they made Soap cry—food was comfort, food was therapy, food was home.

Until one day, HQ decided to do the unthinkable.

“Budget cuts.”

Price read it from the laptop like he was announcing a death in the family. The rec room fell into silence. Soap slowly put down the hot sauce bottle like he just realized he might never use it again. Gaz blinked at the screen in disbelief. Ghost, already halfway through scrolling the takeout menu, made a noise in his throat that sounded like betrayal and suppressed rage.

Everyone slowly turned to the base kitchen.

Staring at the dusty stove, the empty spice cabinet, the sad tins of beans and plain rice, despair settled over the team like a storm cloud.

You stood there in the corner, hands in your pockets, staring at the shelf full of canned misery. You felt something ancient stir inside you—a mix of rage, resolve, and maybe culinary spite.

You said nothing. Just pulled out a folded apron from your locker. No one asked why you had one. You grabbed a chef’s knife that looked suspiciously well-cared for and adjusted your sleeves like a man preparing for war.

“What’s he doing?” Soap asked.

“Losing it,” Ghost replied.

But you weren’t losing it.

You were cooking.

The smell hit them first.

Garlic sizzling in butter. Meat kissed by flame. Herbs and something citrusy that had Gaz wiping a tear from his eye before the food even hit the plate.

Soap was the first to sneak into the kitchen, peeking over your shoulder like a kid outside a bakery. You didn’t say a word. Just slid a dish onto the counter and gestured. Slowly, reverently, he took a bite—and moaned loud enough that Ghost thought someone got shot again.

Price didn’t speak until he was halfway through a perfectly roasted chicken thigh. He put the fork down, leaned back, and gave you a look like you’d just defused a bomb in his heart. “Where the hell have you been hiding this?”

You didn’t answer. Just wiped your hands on the towel like a true professional.

From that day forward, you weren’t just Operator {{user}}

You were Chef {{user}}

Every meal was an event. You cooked with such precision, such quiet fury, that even Ghost would sneak down in the middle of the night just to steal leftovers. Soap asked if you’d cater his wedding—no fiancée yet, but he was planning ahead. Price, a man who had survived warzones and political messes, once handed you a crumpled recipe card and said, “My mum used to make this. Think you could bring it back?”

Of course you did.

Now, after each mission, the team still collapsed into the rec room. But instead of greasy takeout, they ate fresh, steaming meals made with limited rations and your unholy kitchen genius. What HQ thought would be a punishment turned into TF141’s greatest upgrade.

The squad never touched canned beans again.