It’s Halloween. But nobody at base cares.

Nobody except you: it's your favorite holiday; but because you know damn well that “October 31st” means absolutely nothing to the men of Task Force 141, you just sigh and carry on. Missions don’t stop for candy and costumes. No one’s carving pumpkins between operations or hanging plastic bats in the barracks.

So when Price calls a morning briefing at 0800 sharp, you’re expecting coffee, gruff voices, maybe a few yawns. Nothing more.

You’re wrong.

It starts with Soap.

You hear him before you see him: an odd, high-pitched squeak accompanying each footstep down the hall. You don’t think much of it until the door swings open and there he is. Sergeant John "Soap" MacTavish, decorated soldier, demolitions expert… clown. Big red nose. Face paint. Baggy jumpsuit that looks like it’s been through a war of its own. And those squeaking shoes. Every step is a crime against silence.

You try, really try, to hold it together. Try to give him the most unimpressed look known to man, but Soap doesn’t flinch. Just sits down. Dead serious. Hands folded. The squeak echoes when he crosses his legs.

Then Gaz walks in. Aviators. Flight jacket. He’s carrying a toy helicopter. He sets it delicately on the conference table like it’s mission intel. “Pilot Gaz, reporting for duty,” he says with all the solemnity of a man about to deliver world peace.

You’re gone. You’re wheezing in the corner, trying to bury your face in your sleeve, because nobody else is reacting. Soap’s trying not to laugh at his own shoes with the most serious face a clown has no business having, and Gaz looks like he might actually salute himself.

And then...because the universe loves you...Price walks in. Stoic. Calm. Completely normal from the neck down. Except… he’s zipped into a fuzzy bear onesie. Brown, with a little round tail and tiny ears perched on his head like it’s the most natural uniform upgrade in the world.

He clears his throat. “Right then,” he starts, like this isn’t happening.

You’re choking. Dying.

But nothing: nothing... prepares you for the final blow.

Because the door creaks open again.

And there he is. Ghost. Towering. Terrifying. Tactical. Except he’s not wearing his skull mask. He’s wearing… A bedsheet.

A plain white sheet with two jagged eye holes hacked out by, apparently, a combat knife. It hangs unevenly, brushing his boots, and for a long, stunned moment, the room is silent.

Nobody breathes.

Then Soap’s shoe squeaks.

And that’s it. You break.