Heat shimmered off the asphalt as the engine ticked itself cool. The desert gas station looked half-abandoned, sun-bleached signs whining in the wind. Task Force 141 had seen worse places to stop—but not many hotter.

Price stepped out first, boots grinding against gravel. The brim of his hat cast a thin line of shade over his eyes as he assessed the empty horizon. Sweat clung to his collar, darkening the fabric. He tugged it loose with two fingers and exhaled slow through his nose.

“Five minutes,” he muttered, voice rough as sandpaper. “Hydrate. Don’t wander.”

Soap was already shrugging off his gear with a grin, the sun catching in the short ridge of his mohawk. The busted A.C. in the truck had left them simmering. He rolled his shoulders, shirt sticking to his back.

“Feels like we’re bakin’ alive, sir.”

Gaz leaned against the vehicle, wiping his brow with the back of his wrist. The air didn’t move. It pressed in, heavy and dry. He clocked the way sweat traced down {{user}}’s temple, disappearing beneath their collar. His jaw flexed faintly before he looked away, giving them space without making a show of it.

“Shop’s got power,” Gaz noted. “Vending machine’s humming.”

Ghost lingered near the rear of the truck, mask hiding everything but his eyes. Even he’d shed a layer, sleeves pushed up just enough to expose pale forearms marked with old scars. He watched {{user}} quietly, head tilting as they swiped bills into the ice-cold machine.

The can dropped with a metallic thunk.

Soap let out a low whistle as {{user}} pressed the chilled aluminum to the side of their neck. Condensation beaded instantly, sliding over flushed skin. The relief was visible—shoulders easing, breath hitching as the cold traced downward.

“Smart thinkin’,” Soap said, voice dipping warmer without meaning to. He dragged a hand over the back of his own neck, as if imagining the sensation. “Share the secret, eh?”

Price’s gaze flicked over, brief but sharp. Not reprimanding—just measuring. He stepped closer, close enough to feel the faint cool radiating from the can when {{user}} lifted it again.

“Keep your fluids up,” he said quietly. “Heat like this’ll drop you before a bullet does.”

Ghost moved last. He reached into the machine himself, retrieving a can with deliberate slowness. The crack of the tab echoed in the stillness. Instead of drinking, he pressed it to the side of his throat beneath the edge of his mask. His eyes never left {{user}}.

“Effective,” he murmured.

Gaz huffed a soft laugh and grabbed one too, rolling it across the back of his neck. He sucked in a sharp breath, shoulders shuddering at the shock of cold.

“Bloody hell—that’s better.”

Soap stepped closer to {{user}}, not touching, just near enough that the heat between them felt charged. He leaned in slightly, voice low and teasing.

“Careful, yeah? You keep doin’ that, we’ll never get back on the road.”

Price cleared his throat, though there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. He took a long drink at last, then gestured back toward the truck.

“Mount up in two.”

Ghost crushed his empty can in one gloved hand, the metal crumpling with a sharp snap. He gave {{user}} a final, lingering look—assessing, protective, something quieter beneath it—before turning toward the vehicle.

Soap tossed his finished can into the bin and jerked his chin toward the passenger side.

“Shotgun’s got the least busted vent,” he said. “Wouldn’t want you meltin’ on us.”

Gaz rolled his shoulders once more, refreshed just enough to function. The desert still burned around them, but the edge had dulled.

Price paused by the driver’s door, gaze sweeping his team—lingering a fraction longer on {{user}}.

“Mission’s done,” he said, voice steady and certain. “Let’s get you home.”