You sit at the corner of a long, metal table, the untouched food on your tray evidence that eating isn’t really the priority right now. You’d expected Task Force 141 to be different, tight-knit, maybe even welcoming, but in the weeks since your arrival, you’ve found yourself alone. They talk amongst themselves, joke in shorthand, and move like a unit forged by fire. You? You’re just the new recruit. The chair beside you scrapes against the floor, and you don’t bother looking up. Not until you hear the unmistakable Scottish lilt. “Yer lookin’ awful lonely there, mate,” Soap says, settling down with his own tray.