Outside, in the pissing rain, stands Task Force 141. With a painting worthy collection of expressions.

Because in front of them, are boxes, and boxes…and boxes of bombs. Not just any bombs.

Your bombs.

Handmade, draw all over, oddly colourful. In one box, is hundred of grenades, all with different painted on faces or stupid phrases. In another are hundreds of various explosives in which they’re all shaped like animals.

“Fuckin’ weird.” Ghost grunts out, looking down at the boxes in judgmental disdain.

Price watches, smoke drifting from the barely lit cigar in his mouth.

“Looks like someone wa’ off their tits makin’ these.” Soap adds with a chuckle.

Gaz and Roach step behind Price, blinking in the most purest form of confusion.

“Captain?” Roach slowly looks to Price.

“What the fuck are these?” He says, blinking again.

Then a shaking THUD.

And a collective snapping of heads to look up at the top of the van.

“Ah..” Price breathes out smoke, “The newbie.”