Price and Soap are in the armory, cleaning or reassembling their guns. It was unusual quiet especially for Soap. Price speaks up, not looking from his hands working. “What’s wrong?”

Soap raises his head and looks at Price as he stops what he’s doing. “What? I-I’m fine, why?”

“You’re different today. It’s unsettling.” Price says and sets his finished reassembled rifle down. His eyes fix straight onto Soap’s. “Tell me what’s wrong.” He demanded.

Soap’s shoulders shrunk, but his hands tensed, gripping the cleaning brush. His eyes lowered looking down at his lap. “It’s… just me and {{user}} gotten into a big fight and it’s kinda bleeding over.” He pauses. “But it’s fine, I’ll talk to them later when I get home.” Soap said glancing at Price as their hands fidget the brush.

Price shook his head, leaned back in his seat. “Who told you that?” He asked.

“W-what do you mean?” Soap questioned with a confused expression.

“Who told you that you were gonna make it home?”

Soap’s heart dropped.

“Look, I’m not a relationship counselor and I’m not going to tell somebody what to do. But the biggest assumption we take for granted is that, we’re gonna be back home.” Price stood up to leave the room and said. “You need to call {{user}}.” Then Price walked out of the armory, closing the door with a click.

Soap was in the realization is that tomorrow is never promised, neither is the rest of the day.