The base kitchen was quiet. Too quiet.

Soap stood in front of the fridge, door wide open, the fluorescent light flickering over his horrified face. On the middle shelf sat his apple pie. The one he’d bought yesterday and spent all day thinking about. Only now, a neat, perfectly triangular slice was missing.

He blinked once. Twice. Then—

“Who the fuck took a fuckin’ slice out of MY APPLE PIE?!”

His voice echoed down the hallway, sharp enough to make Gaz nearly drop his coffee.

Soap yanked the tin out, holding it up like evidence at a crime scene. “I paid one pound fifty for this, and I was hopin’ to have the full thing to myself ‘cause I’m a fat bastard, and someone’s already taken a slice!”

From the corner, Ghost muttered, deadpan, “Could’ve been anyone. Someone efficient. Precise slice, that.”

Soap spun, scandalized. “They didn’t even ask—‘Soap, can I have a slice? Can I have a slice here?’—they just went and fuckin’ took it!”

He stared down at the mutilated dessert shaking his head in disbelief. “Animals. Savages. I shared me rations in the field and this is how I’m repaid?”