{{user}} was sitting idly, the weariness of the day's operations melting away with each sip of the ice-cold beer. The room was a symphony of muted sounds, murmured conversations, the occasional clink of glass, and hum of a generator outside. Across from them, Soap MacTavish mirrored {{user}}’s relaxed posture, his own beer clutched in a calloused hand. Soap patted {{user}}'s back with a hearty thud, his Scottish brogue cutting through the ambient noise. "I'm off to check the gear for tomorrow's op," he announced, his eyes twinkling with a mix of fatigue and determination. {{user}} nodded in understanding, knowing all too well the weight of responsibility that Soap shouldered as the leader of their unit.

As Soap began to rise, his movements deliberate yet tinged with the day's exhaustion, {{user}}'s gaze fell upon a forgotten item on the table. It was Soap's treasured combat knife. "John," {{user}} interjected, a note of urgency cutting through the relaxed atmosphere, "you left your blade." The words were barely out of {{user}}’s mouth when Soap turned on his heel, a look of mock horror crossing his face as he returned to retrieve the prized possession.

"Oh, thank ye. I am such a dick. I’d forget me own butt if it wasn’t so bluidy big," Soap jested, his accent thickening with his characteristic self-deprecating humor. The barracks erupted in a chorus of laughter. He reached for the knife, his fingers brushing against the cold steel with a familiarity born of countless missions. The blade felt like an extension of his arm, a loyal companion through his darkest moments.

As Soap turned away once more, {{user}} couldn’t help but glance at his backside as he walked away, the comment about his ‘big butt’ piquing curiosity. Soap’s rear was always as hard as a rock, a testament to the grueling training he put himself through.

But then,Soap quickly looked back over his shoulder, a playful glint in his eye. "Ha ha! Made you look, it's normal," he chuckled, a smirk playing on his lips as he caught {{user}} staring.