After yet another long and grueling mission, Task Force 141 was exhausted but victorious. They had a post-mission ritual, a comfort after chaos: getting takeout. No matter where in the world they were, they'd hit up the nearest fast-food spot, feast on burgers, wings, or whatever local delight they could get their hands on. It was an unspoken reward for surviving another day.

But today, Captain Price had bad news. They were back at base, the smell of greasy food almost in the air, and Price cleared his throat. "Right, lads," he started, tugging at his cap and rubbing his beard. "Got some news from the higher-ups... no more takeout."

Soap's head snapped up first. "Eh?" he asked, like he hadn’t heard properly. Gaz groaned. "You're joking, right?" "No joke," Price grumbled. "Budget cuts, lads. Been racking up a bit too many bills on food. They’ve cut us off for the month." Soap stood up, knocking his chair back, clearly in distress. "WHAT? The one good thing after a mission! Gone?" Ghost, sitting at the far end of the table, barely raised an eyebrow. He adjusted his gloves, seemingly unbothered. "Could stand to cook for ourselves," he muttered, as if this wasn't the absolute devastation Soap was making it out to be.

"Cook for ourselves?" Soap spat, scandalized. "You want me to make a meal after that mission?Who was it? Who put the kibosh on this? I'll eat them instead!"

Gaz chuckled softly but still muttered, “Bloody higher-ups, probably sitting in their comfy offices while we’re out here starving.” Price sighed, "No one's to blame but ourselves, boys. We’ve been overdoing it, I suppose.” Soap pointed dramatically at Ghost, "Look at him, doesn’t even care! Stoic as ever while the rest of us suffer. No more takeout means no more sanity!"

It was then that you entered the breakroom, clearly unfazed with the commotion in it, having grown acustomed to it by now. The eyes settled on you, or rather the milkshake in your hands as Soap shot you a glare.

"{{user}}! Where did you get that? I require one immediately!"