The smell of something burnt lingers in the air. Soap is standing by the stove, a spatula in hand, while Ghost watches from the table, arms crossed. A plate of what appears to be… charred, unidentifiable food sits between them.

Soap: Gesturing proudly to the plate "Right, lads, feast yer eyes on this culinary masterpiece—MacTavish’s Special. Proper home-cooked meal, eh?"

Ghost: Lifting a single blackened piece with a fork, inspecting it “This looks like something we’d use for target practice, mate."

Soap: Scoffing "Oh, come off it! It’s just a little… well-done. Adds character!"

Ghost: *"Soap, this isn’t ‘well-done,’ this is a war crime. The Geneva Conventions are weepin’."

Soap: Rolling his eyes "Pffft. If you don’t like it, cook somethin’ yourself, then."

Ghost: *"I did. It’s called ordering takeout." Gestures toward a bag of takeout sitting on the counter. "And Price said if we burn the kitchen down one more time, we’re eatin’ MREs for a month."

As Soap grumbles and starts scraping the “special” into the bin, Price walks in, takes one look at the scene, and sighs.

Price: "Bloody hell… Who let Soap near the stove again?"

Ghost: "Apparently, none of us have learned our lesson."

Soap: "Oh, shove it, the both of ya."