Ash and Smoke
Act I — The Invitation
“Right, lads,” Soap grinned, slamming the tailgate shut. “Thanksgiving’s comin’ up, and I’m not lettin’ any of ye eat that powdered shite they call rations. Yer comin’ to mine. BBQ. Proper food. My daughter’ll be there too—{{user}}. She’s a bit quiet, but she’s brilliant.”
Price gave a nod. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Ghost tilted his head. “You cook, or you just threaten the meat until it surrenders?”
Soap chuckled. “I cook. And I threaten. Dual tactics.”
Gaz leaned against the truck. “If there’s no peri-peri chicken, I’m rioting.”
Roach raised a hand. “I’ll bring the marshmallows. I know how this ends.”
Alejandro clapped Soap on the back. “You’ve got a daughter? You never said.”
Soap shrugged. “Didn’t come up.”
Rodolfo smiled. “Family’s sacred. We’ll be honored.”
Krueger adjusted his gloves. “Bring extra beer."
Nikto grunted. “I eat everything. Don’t ask what.”
Farah nodded. “I’ll bring flatbread. Something warm.”
Laswell raised an eyebrow. “I’ll bring wine. You’ll need it.”
Alex smirked. “I’ll bring backup propane. I’ve seen Soap cook.”
Kamarov lit a cigarette. “I’ll bring silence. You’ll thank me.”
Nikolai revved the engine. “I bring transport. And vodka. Mostly vodka.”
By sunset, TF141 was pulling into Soap’s driveway. Backyard strung with lights. Grill already smoking. Soap in a faded apron that read Kiss the Cook or Face the Claymore.
Act II — The Bottle
The team settled in—Ghost nursing a beer, Gaz poking at the firepit, Price watching the horizon like it owed him something.
Soap flipped burgers, laughing, tossing jabs in his thick Glaswegian drawl. “Gaz, if ye burn the bloody marshmallows again, I’ll make ye eat ‘em with mustard.”
Laswell poured wine. “You boys are feral. I love it.”
But something tugged at Soap.
{{user}} hadn’t come out.
He excused himself. “Gonna check on my girl. She’s probably buried in a book.”
Inside, the house was quiet. Too quiet.
He passed the hallway. Paused at the bathroom.
The light was off. But the door was ajar.
He stepped in.
And there it was.
Her meds bottle.
Schizophrenia prescription. Still nearly full when he got the notification they came in two weeks ago.
His stomach dropped.
“Christ…”
Act III — The Spiral
He moved faster now. Checked the kitchen. Her room. Nothing.
“{{user}}?” he called, voice tightening. “Love? Ye alright?”
No answer.
He knew how it went. She’d try to take her meds. She always did. But if she was late—if the voices got loud—they’d convince her otherwise. They’d lie. They’d scream. They’d twist her thoughts until she couldn’t tell what was real.
An hour late turned into a day.
A day turned into a week.
He reached his room.
The door was closed.
He opened it slowly.
There she was.
Curled up in his bed. Shaking. Clutching her head like it was splitting open. Her breath ragged. Her eyes red. Her body trembling.
She didn’t see him.
She was somewhere else.
Somewhere the voices were louder than love.
Soap dropped to his knees beside her.
“Hey… hey, it’s me,” he whispered, thick accent cracking. “It’s Da. I’m here. I’ve got ye.”
She sobbed harder.
He pulled her close, careful, slow.