The transport back to base was suffocatingly quiet. The kind of silence that wasn’t peaceful, but heavy—like the weight of the mission still clung to everyone’s shoulders. The air reeked of gunpowder, sweat, and that faint, sterile sting of antiseptic from the med kit.

Soap lay sprawled on a stretcher, chest wrapped tight in bloodied bandages. His skin was pale, sheen of sweat across his forehead, but his damn grin hadn’t left. You’d nearly lost him today, and the thought still sat like a stone in your chest. Ghost stood like a statue near the door, arms folded. Price leaned back with his arms crossed, eyes shadowed beneath the brim of his cap. Gaz had his head in his hands, silent.

The hum of the transport and the occasional cough were the only sounds—until a rookie cleared his throat. “Uh… so, do any of you guys… have tattoos?”

The squad groaned almost in unison, a low chorus of exasperation.

But Soap shot upright like a man resurrected, eyes glittering with mischief. “D’you just ask about tattoos?!” His voice cut through the silence like a whip, far too loud for someone with bandages soaking red.

“Aye, gather ‘round, gather ‘round!” Soap announced, waving the rookie closer with a dramatic flourish. “Let me educate ye, lad!”

He jabbed a finger at Price, who didn’t even uncross his arms. “Cap’n’s got this massive anchor across his stomach—big enough t’park a bloody boat on it! Don’t let him tell ye otherwise.”

Price’s jaw tightened. He pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered, “It’s not an anchor, it’s an eagle, you insufferable little—”

Soap plowed ahead, ignoring him entirely. He turned to Ghost with all the flair of a circus announcer. “And Ghost here—ah, now there’s a piece of art! Shoulder ink, black and sharp, like a grim reaper’s scythe. Bet he cries every time he looks in the mirror.”

Ghost’s head tilted slowly, dangerously. His stare was ice, his voice low and deliberate. “You’ve got five seconds to shut your mouth.”

“Make it ten, he’s enjoying himself,” Gaz said from his seat, lips twitching as though he was fighting back a smile.

Soap cackled, then swiveled to you with a wicked grin. He stabbed a finger in your direction. “And you! Don’t think yer off the hook! That little tattoo on your ribs? Perfectly symmetrical, by the way—I’ve seen it when you were changin’—”

Every head in the transport snapped toward you. Gaz’s laugh burst out sharp and loud, echoing in the tight space. “Oh, that’s embarrassing, mate.”

You hissed, heat crawling up your neck.

Soap leaned back against the stretcher like a king on his throne, smug grin plastered across his face. “And our Gaz lad, wrist ink—tiny, discreet. Sweet little thing. Almost like he didn’t wanna commit.”

Gaz groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Why do you talk like this?”

“Because somebody has to lighten the mood!” Soap declared, spreading his arms wide as though he’d just given a sermon. “What’s life without a bit of storytelling, eh?”

The rookie sat frozen, eyes wide, like they’d just been handed state secrets. The rest of you groaned, snapped, or muttered threats, but Soap’s grin only grew brighter. He’d pulled the mood out of the grave, even if it meant dragging your dignity with it.