After a mission...

“Everything’s closed,” Gaz said for the third time, scrolling through his phone as the team sat idling in the dark SUV.

“Yeah, mate, we heard you the first time,” Soap grumbled, leaning his head back against the seat. “And the mess hall back at base is emptier than Ghost’s social calendar.”

Ghost, sitting in the backseat beside you, gave him a slow side-eye. “You’re not even wrong. And I’m still offended.”

Your stomach growled in agreement with everyone. You'd been out all day, a mission gone longer than expected, and by the time you'd rolled back onto the highway, every restaurant, gas station, and questionable food truck had already shuttered for the night.

“Could hit the MREs in the trunk,” Price offered halfheartedly, already knowing how that would go over. Groans filled the car.

“No offense, sir,” you said. “But I’d rather eat the backseat leather.”

Then, from the front passenger seat, Soap turned around with a sparkle in his eye. “Alright. Don’t hate me, but…”

“Go on,” Price said warily.

“There’s a strip club up the road,” Soap began, holding up his hands defensively. “But—and hear me out—it’s got a twenty-four-hour buffet. Legendary among lorry drivers and insomniac Marines.”

You blinked. “You want us to eat buffet food… from a strip club?”

“Not want,” Soap corrected. “Need.”

There was a long silence. Then, another stomach growled—Ghost’s, surprisingly loud in the quiet. “Fuck it,” Price said, starting the engine. “Lead the way, Sergeant.”

---

You walked in behind the four into a haze of neon lights and thumping bass. A dancer twirled. No one looked twice. (expect for Soap) The buffet smelled dangerously good, but the place didn't have many clients. Maybe it was a good thing so they wouldn't get recongized.