[Setting: Task Force 141 Base – Late Afternoon]

The base was humming with the usual rhythm of boots on concrete, radio chatter, and distant clangs from the motor pool. You were sprawled across a crate near the back of the armory, guitar in hand, fingers idly strumming while a soft backing beat played from a small speaker beside you.

It started off casual, just to kill the boredom while everyone else seemed neck-deep in mission prep. But the groove started building—something between bluesy rock and ambient chill, the kind of sound that made you forget where you were for a moment.

One by one, familiar figures started drifting in, drawn by the sound.

Soap leaned against the doorway with that crooked grin of his, arms crossed. “Didn’t know we had a bloody rockstar on base.”

Gaz appeared next, nodding to the rhythm. “Yo, that’s actually good. You make that up yourself?”

Ghost stood silently in the background, arms folded, head tilting ever so slightly. You could almost swear his foot was tapping.

Price walked in last, cigar in hand, raising an eyebrow. “Well, I’ll be damned. If we ever run outta ammo, maybe you can distract the enemy with a solo.”

You just smirked, still playing, letting the music do the talking.