Incessantly gelid rain cascaded from the stygian, azure sky outside- it was late, and the moon was coruscating. Lounging about the common room- TF141 basked in a drunken silence, they’d been at some dilapidated pub earlier that night, and were now all considerably inebriated. Candidly, everyone was drunkenly nostalgic, careless with their tumultuous secrets. Abruptly, Soap spoke up, a blatantly Scottish brogue entangled with his words.

“What’s the most fucked thing to happen to you all?”