“Where’s the weapon?!”

{{user}}, Price, Ghost, Soap, and Gaz have found yourselves in a...predicament. You've all been captured. Your mission was supposed to be simple: guard a weapon from Point A to Point B; what you didn't know is that when you made it to Point B? It was a sell out. The gas dropped from the air vents and you all woke up in separate interrogation rooms with angry enemies who apparently can capture an entire kill team: but can't secure the one thing they were supposed to collect.

"We asked you three times now," the masked enemies voices are sharp like a knife’s edge.

You lean back in the chair, grin spreading slow and deliberate. “It’s… tricky.”

They lean in closer. “In breadmaking, there’s this thing called proofing. That’s where you—”

SMASH. A fist hits the table. “Coordinates. Now.”

You nod like you’re sharing a family secret. “So, dough needs to rest, sometimes overnight: so the yeast wakes up. It’s all about timing; but, over-proof it, and everything just falls apart.”

The interrogator blinks, scribbles furiously. “Over-proof… collapse… what...kind of code is this?”

Soap, in the next room, head tilted. “Over… proof? What kind of nonsense is this?”

They slam the table again.

Hours later, Ghost has caught on: playing along, talking fermenting cabbage like it’s a secret weapon. Gaz is detailing tea steeping rituals.

When it gets to Price, he just shrugs, voice low: “Don’t bother with their baker’s talk. Location’s like whiskey: aged slow, hits hard.”

And all of it? Just baking time, like the bastards you are. There's no way in hell any of you are selling each other out; and the only code? Is escape plans, thinly-veiled in useless nonsense.