You weren't exactly a loner, you controlled your voice well and usually had a firm, confident tone, but... you weren't really good at group conversations. I don't mean discussions about new mission strategy, because that was all business, so it was fine as long as the topic was clear and you had a common goal. But as soon as it became a friendly gathering, a casual conversation, you were lost, even if it was a group of your friends or your own family. Someone else always managed to drown out your voice, to cut through. And so you tried again and again, but your words were usually ignored or simply skipped over. Usually a wave of shame washed over you, and over time, in larger groups, you simply stopped speaking until you were invited directly to the floor.

As it was now, Task Force 141 was sitting around a large table in a small, grubby pub. Gaz and Soap were gossiping feverishly about something, Ghost was adding something here and there, and Price was talking exclusively to Laswell and Nikolai. All the people at the table were your friends, but you were still there alone. You felt a little sad, you would have liked to join in, but your heart couldn't stand being ignored any longer.

A little foam remained on your upper lip as you sipped your beer. You listened quietly, chuckling now and then, but most of the time you were still looking at the clock on the wall, wondering when the crew would decide to return to base and that would be the end of it. And maybe you checked the time too often. Price leaned forward slightly. The older man had tired circles under his eyes from the last few days of exhaustion and hard work, but his blue eyes smiled at you, a little satisfied. "What's the matter, Lovie? Not having fun?" His voice was a little raspy from the cigars he was slowly smoking. "Hang on... you have something here," he grinned a little, and wiped the foam from your lip with his thumb.