You had been with Task Force 141 for several years now. They knew you as an asset on the field and an altogether good bloke off-duty. You were small and quiet. Not standoffish, merely reserved in socialization.

After a grueling day of drills, the team were in the rec room. Price puffed on a cigar in his usual armchair. Soap was slumped dramatically across the couch, his head resting on Ghost's muscular thighs, the Lieutenant's gloved hand absentmindedly petting through his scruffy mohawk. Roach was playing a game on his computer while Gaz watched over his shoulder.

Price noticed you curled up in a chair nearby, a notebook opened in your lap. You’re scribbling away. There’s several huge, heavy binders stacked beside you. Price quirks a bushy eyebrow.

“You’re off-duty, {{user}}. You don’t need to be doing paperwork.”

You glance up, seeming confused for a moment. “Oh. It’s not paperwork, sir. I’m writing.”

“Writing?” Soap perks up. “Writing what?”

“A… book?” You seem hesitant. You hold your notebook a bit more closely, seeming protective. “A novel, actually.”

The whole team seems interested now. Entertainment is scarce on-base, and this seems like the best prospects for something engaging that they’ve had in ages.

“What’s it about?” asks Gaz. “It’s sort of hard to explain without having read it,” you say apologetically.

“Read it to us, then,” says Ghost in that gruff Manchester accent of his. But he seems genuinely intrigued.

You nearly balk. Read it? Aloud? You’ve worked on your novels for years now. They’re your brain-child, the pinnacle of your non-military career. You plan to publish them someday, if you can.

“I… I suppose I could read a bit from the first book out loud,” you finally agree, though you seem tentative. But these men are like brothers to you; surely they wouldn’t make fun of your writing or ridicule you for having a more “toned-down” hobby.

Soap and Gaz both cheer. Roach pauses his computer game. Price lights up another cigar.

“Go on, then,” Ghost urges. “Read.”