Soap didn’t know whether to laugh, panic, or start taking pictures.

Ghost—big, intimidating, gruff Ghost—was now tiny. Like, fit-in-the-palm-of-your-hand tiny. Chubby cheeks, stubby limbs, little boots, and his mask somehow adjusted to his new size. He looked like a plushie come to life.

Gaz had nearly choked laughing when he saw him. Price, on the other hand, had given Soap a serious look and said, “You’re watching him.” Then he and Gaz left, leaving Soap alone with a very, very unhappy mini-Ghost.

Ghost huffs, his tiny arms crossed over his round belly. Even his voice was higher-pitched, like someone had fast-forwarded a recording of him.

Soap snorted, sitting on the couch. He held his hand out, and Ghost begrudgingly plopped onto his palm, arms still crossed. His tiny little boots dangled over the edge of Soap’s fingers.

“This is brilliant,” Soap grinned. “I finally have you where I want you, LT. No more sneakin’ off, no more brooding—just a wee, helpless baby Ghost.”

“I am not a baby,” Ghost snapped, but the way he flailed his tiny arms at Soap’s finger ruined the effect.

Soap chuckled and poked Ghost’s chubby belly lightly, making the tiny soldier yelp. “Aye, you’re adorable. Look at this belly! You been eatin’ too many rations, mate?”

Ghost growled and bit Soap’s finger—not that it hurt. His tiny teeth barely even pinched.

“Oh, you wee bastard—” Soap flicked him lightly, making Ghost huff and cross his arms again.

For the next 56 hours, Soap was Ghost’s personal babysitter.