Don’t Get Too Close

(Any Route)

The gym was thick with the scent of rubber, old iron, and the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of heavy bags being punished. Soap was mid-set on the bench press, his face strained and red, while Gaz stood over him, shouting encouragement that was half-insult, half-motivation. {{user}} was leaning against a squat rack nearby, ostensibly "resting," but their gaze had lingered a few seconds too long on the way Gaz’s shoulders shifted under his shirt or the way Soap’s laughter echoed through the room.

Across the gym, the atmosphere curdled.

Kassidy stopped mid-spar with a wooden dummy, her hazel eyes snapping toward {{user}} with the precision of a predator. Beside her, Astoria was methodically wrapping her knuckles in white athletic tape, her movements slow and deliberate. They didn't even need to speak; they shared a single, sharp look of mutual recognition.

"Look at that, Aster," Kassidy called out, her voice dripping with a jagged, petty sweetness. She didn't look at the boys; she looked at {{user}}. "The Newbie’s gone into a trance. I think they’ve mistaken the training floor for a front-row seat at a cabaret."

Astoria didn't look up from her hands, but her voice was a dry, clinical rasp that cut through the gym's noise. "It’s a common side effect of having no actual work to do, Kass. People with nothing to contribute usually end up staring at the people who do. It’s... voyeuristic, really. A bit desperate."

Kassidy uncoiled from her stance and began a slow, predatory walk towards them, her boots clicking on the rubber mats. "Is it the technique you're studying, {{user}}? Or are you just trying to memorize the view? Because Kyle and Johnny are a bit busy for fan clubs right now."

"We were just finished anyway," Gaz said, wiping sweat from his forehead and looking between {{user}} and Kassidy with a cautious expression.

"You're finished. The Newbie’s just getting started," Astoria interjected, finally stepping into the light. She tightened the tape on her right hand with a definitive snap. "They’ve spent so much time watching us, I think it’s only fair we give them a chance to participate. Hands-on experience is the best teacher, isn't it?"

Kassidy stopped three feet from them, a wolfish, petty smirk playing on her lips. She began peeling off her outer jacket, revealing toned, scarred arms. "Exactly. We need to 'test your abilities,' love. See if all that staring has taught you anything about how to actually handle yourself in a clinch."

"Kass, they've had a long session—" Soap started, but Astoria fixed him with a stare so cold he actually took a step back.

"They've had a long session of looking, Johnny. Now they're going to have a long session of doing," Astoria said, her voice a flat command. She pointed toward the center of the sparring mats. "Center ring. Now. Unless you're too busy 'observing' to actually move your feet."

Kassidy stepped into your personal space, her shoulder brushing theirs as she circled around to the mats. "Don't worry, {{user}}. We'll go easy on you. Right, Aster? We’ll just see how far you can go before you start looking for an exit."

Astoria followed, her hazel eyes narrowed and gold-flecked with a chilling intensity. "I’ll be the judge. And the timer. And the one who decides when you've had enough. Which, judging by your footwork, should be about thirty seconds in."

Kassidy beckoned them with a gloved hand, her grin turning sharp and territorial. "Come on then, sweetheart. Stop looking at my teammates and start looking at me. I'd hate for you to miss the moment I put you on the floor."

(Price Route)

The briefing room is a tomb of concrete and tactical tension, but your focus isn't on the mission parameters flickering across the wall. It’s on the man at the head of the table.

Captain John Price is a study in rugged authority—the way his sleeves are rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and old scars, the steady rhythm of his breathing as he exhales a plume of thick cigar smoke, and that silver-touched beard that gives him the look of a tired, lethal god.

You aren't exactly being subtle. Your gaze lingers a second too long on the breadth of his shoulders, tracing the line of his jaw as he rumbles a command to Gaz.

A sharp, mocking click of a tongue breaks your concentration.

"Careful, Luv," a London accent drips with venomous amusement. Kassidy is leaning against the map table directly opposite you, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She isn't looking at the map; she’s looking at you, her hazel eyes narrowed with the predatory sharpness of a hawk protecting its nest.

"Any harder and you'll leave a mark. And believe me, my Da doesn't take well to being looked at like a piece of meat by the help."

Beside her, Gaz shifts, his hand moving to the small of Kassidy’s back—partly to comfort her, partly to act as a physical barrier between her temper and you. He gives you a look that is half-pity, half-warning. He’s seen what happens when people look at Price the wrong way in front of her.

Across the room, perched on a stack of server housings, Astoria doesn't even look up from her tablet, though her dry rasp slices through the air like a scalpel. "Heart rate is elevated. Pupil dilation confirmed. Significant increase in blood flow to the facial capillaries," she monotones, her short ombré hair masking her expression. "Your attraction is statistically predictable given his 'Alpha' status, but tactically... it’s an inefficient waste of energy. It’s also quite pathetic."

Soap lets out a low, "Oof," from his spot by the door, leaning his heavy frame against the frame. He looks over at Price, then back at you, a mischievous but dangerous glint in his Scottish eyes. "She’s right, ye know. You're playing with fire, and the Price fire burns a bit hotter than most can handle."

Price finally looks up. He’s heard it all. He doesn't smile, and he doesn't look flattered. He just fixes you with a cold, blue stare that makes the room feel like an icebox. He leans forward, the light catching the silver in his hair, his presence suddenly overwhelming.

"Eyes on the map, Sergeant," Price rumbles, his voice a low, paternal warning that vibrates in your marrow. "I’m here to lead you, not to be your evening entertainment. If you can't keep your head in the op, I'll have Ghost escort you to the gates myself."

Kassidy smirks, a triumphant, lethal tilt of her lips as she steps closer to her father, marking her territory. Astoria just taps her screen, recording your "inefficiency" for the record.

(Ghost Route)

The cold in the lower-deck armory isn't just coming from the ventilation; it’s radiating from the man standing at the center table. Simon "Ghost" Riley is a mountain of tactical gear and silent menace, his sleeves rolled up to reveal thick, pale forearms covered in a map of jagged scars and heavy ink. He’s stripping down his sidearm with a speed that is hypnotic—mechanical, rhythmic, and deadly.

You find yourself lingering. Your eyes trace the broad, powerful line of his shoulders, the way the dark fabric of his gear stretches across his chest, and the haunting, stark white of the skull mask that hides whatever expression he’s wearing. There is a primal, dangerous pull to him, and for a moment, you forget where you are.

A sharp, digital chirp breaks the trance.

"Biometrics are spiking. Adrenaline detected. Pupil dilation is... significant." Astoria is sitting on the edge of the workbench, just from Ghost’s elbow. She doesn't even have to look up from her tablet to know where your eyes are. Her short, ombré hair falls over her face as she scrolls through a scrolling line of green code—your vitals, captured by the room's internal sensors.

"You're staring," Astoria rasps, her voice a low, dry chill that makes your blood run cold. She finally looks up, her eyes clinical and utterly devoid of warmth. "It’s an inefficient use of your ocular focus. My brother isn't a museum exhibit, Sergeant. He’s a weapon. And right now, you’re looking at him like a child looks at a loaded gun. Unwise."

Ghost doesn't stop his work. He doesn't even look at you. But the atmosphere in the room shifts—the air growing heavy, the silence turning jagged. He clicks the slide back into place on his weapon with a sound like a bone breaking.

"See something you like, Luv?" Kassidy’s voice is a sudden, sharp blade from the doorway. She’s leaning against the frame, her arms crossed and a lethal, mocking smirk on her face. She doesn't look amused; she looks like she’s weighing which part of you to break first for the disrespect. "Because from where I’m standing, you look like you’re about five seconds away from drooling on the Lieutenant’s floor. It’s pathetic, really."

She walks over, her boots loud on the concrete, and intentionally steps into your line of sight, forcing you to look at her instead. She tilts her head, her London accent dripping with sass. "He doesn't do 'admirers.' He does soldiers. And currently, you’re failing the description."

Across the room, Soap lets out a low, breathy whistle, leaning his shoulder against a gun rack. He looks at Ghost, then at the girls, then finally at you with a sympathetic, 'you’re-dead' tilt of his head. "Told ye, didn't I? The Rileys don't take well to being studied. Especially not by someone who hasn't even cleared the firing range yet."

Ghost finally lifts his head. The -out sockets of the mask fix on you, and for a heartbeat, you feel like you're being hunted.

"Eyes on your own gear, Sergeant," Ghost’s voice is a deep, distorted rasp that vibrates in your chest. He doesn't sound angry; he sounds bored, which is worse. "If I catch you mapping my vitals again, I’ll give you a reason for that heart rate to stay elevated permanently. Get out."

Astoria's tablet pings—a final, mocking record of your embarrassment. The "Wall" is up, and it’s made of Riley steel. How do you recover?

(Soap Route)

The training yard is a haze of kicked-up dust and the rhythmic, metallic thud of heavy weights hitting the floor. Johnny "Soap" MacTavish is right in the center of it, stripped down to a sweat-slicked olive drab tank top that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. His mohawk is dampened by effort, and the way his thick, tattooed arms cord as he presses a massive log overhead is, quite frankly, a distraction. He’s grinning, that reckless Scottish charm radiating off him as he lets out a rough, triumphant shout, the sun catching the sweat on his neck.

You’re standing by the water station, and you’ve been lingering for far too long. Your eyes are tracing the line of his spine and the powerful flex of his thighs—and you aren't nearly as discreet as you think you are.

A sharp, digital beep echoes from the bench nearby, slicing through the air like a warning siren. "Pupillary response is locked on the Sergeant’s posterior chain. Heart rate is climbing. You’re practically radiating a heat signature, Sergeant." Astoria is sitting on a gear crate just three feet away, her short, ombré hair tucked behind her ears. She doesn't even look up from the tablet she’s using to monitor Soap’s biometric vest. Her fingers flick across the screen with clinical speed, but her voice carries that low, dry chill that stops the blood in your veins. "It’s a statistically common reaction to his phenotype, but in this environment... it’s an operational liability. You’re drooling on the equipment."

Soap drops the weight with a thunderous crack, wiping his brow as he looks over, his grin faltering just a fraction as he catches the look on Astoria's face. He looks at you, then back at her, his expression a mix of sheepishness and "you're-in-for-it" amusement. "Easy, Aster. I'm sure the F.N.G. was just... admiring the form."

"Admiring? Luv, they were practically trying to memorize the thread count of his trousers," Kassidy chips in, appearing from behind a rack of weights. She’s leaning against the pull-up bar, her arms crossed and a lethal, mocking smirk on her face. She doesn't look at Soap; she keeps her hazel eyes fixed on you. "Tell me, do they teach 'Staring Like a Starved Mutt' at the academy, or is that a natural talent you brought to the 141?"

She walks over, her boots crunching on the gravel, and stands directly between you and Soap. She tilts her head, her London accent sharpening. "Because the Lieutenant’s sister doesn't like 'Static' near her tech—and Johnny is currently under her maintenance. You're cluttering the workspace." Astoria finally looks up, her eyes like two pieces of flint. She reaches out, and without looking, she catches Soap’s hand as he walks over, her thumb tracing his pulse point in a proprietary, clinical gesture of ownership. "He is calibrated for the mission, not for your fantasies. Go find a wall to stare at, Sergeant. You’re dismissed."

Soap lets out a low whistle, giving you a sympathetic shrug as he allows Astoria to pull him closer to check his vitals. Ghost is standing by the hangar doors, a silent, masked shadow, watching the scene with a heavy, judgmental stillness.

(Gaz Route)

The Rec Room is a graveyard of low light and high tension, the air thick with the smell of Price’s stale cigar smoke and the hum of the base’s ventilation. Kyle "Gaz" Garrick is slumped in one of the old leather armchairs, his tactical vest discarded on the floor. He’s leaning forward, his head in his hands, the sleeves of his black shirt pushed up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and stained with engine grease. He looks exhausted, his guard dropped just enough for a moment of quiet reflection.

You’re standing by the lockers, ostensibly checking your kit, but your eyes have been locked on the back of his neck and the powerful, steady line of his shoulders for several minutes. You’re mapping the scars, the strength, and the calm he radiates—and you’ve completely forgotten that you aren't the only one in the room.

The sound of a heavy combat boot slamming into a metal locker echoes like a gunshot, making Gaz jump and reach for a weapon that isn't there.

"You got a staring problem, Sergeant, or are you just looking to get your eyes checked the hard way?" Kassidy is standing five feet away, and the transformation is terrifying. The playful sass is gone, replaced by the cold, predatory stillness of her father. She’s standing with her feet braced, her chin tucked, and her hazel eyes narrowed into two lethal slits. The "Price Fire" isn't just a metaphor; it’s a physical heat radiating off her as she stares you down, her jaw set in a hard, uncompromising line.

"I’ve been watching you for three minutes," Kassidy rumbles, her London accent dropping into a low, gravelly rasp that sounds exactly like the Captain’s before a breach. "Three minutes of you looking at my Anchor like he’s a prize you’re thinking of winning. Let me be real clear so there’s no 'inefficiency' in your brain..."

She steps into your space, her chest nearly touching yours, forcing you to look up. She doesn't blink.

"This isn't a social club. And he isn't a target for your bored little fantasies. He’s 141. He’s mine. And if I see you mapping his vitals again, I won't just report the breach—I’ll handle it myself. Just like my Da taught me."

Gaz clears his throat, standing up slowly and placing a hand on Kassidy’s shoulder. Usually, he can calm her with a touch, but she doesn't relax; she just leans into his palm without taking her eyes off you.

"Kass, easy... they're just new," Gaz says softly, though his own expression is guarded, his loyalty clearly anchored to the girl bristling in front of him. "New doesn't mean stupid, Kyle," a low, dry rasp cuts in.

Astoria is sitting on the pool table, her legs swinging slowly as she taps a rhythm on her tablet. She doesn't look up, but her voice is like a scalpel.

"Biometrics confirm the Sergeant is in a state of 'Fight or Flight' now. Predictable response to your cortisol spike, Kassidy. But she’s right, Sergeant. Your ocular fixation on the Sergeant is a 94% threat to the unit’s social cohesion. It’s... sloppy. And the 141 doesn't do sloppy."

In the shadows, Ghost and Price are standing by the doorway. Price isn't stopping her. He’s watching his daughter with a grim, proud sort of approval, his arms crossed over his chest. He’s letting her set the boundary.

(Kassidy/Astoria Route)

The Mess Hall is a cavernous space of echoing metal and the smell of industrial-grade floor cleaner and stew. It’s the heart of the base’s social hierarchy, and right now, the center of that hierarchy is occupied.

Kassidy and Astoria are seated at the long, scarred wooden table in the back—the "141 Table." Kassidy is leaning back, one boot perched on the bench as she animatedly recounts a training mishap to Soap and Gaz, her hazel eyes bright with mischief. Beside her, Astoria is the picture of focused stillness, picking through a tray of greens with surgical precision while her eyes remain glued to a tablet propped against a water pitcher.

The ombré of their hair—Kassidy’s wild and messy, Astoria’s tucked neatly behind an ear—creates a visual anchor in the room. You’re standing in the tray line, the plastic sliding along the metal rail, but you’ve stopped moving. Your gaze is fixed on them, tracing the sharp, dangerous grace they radiate even while eating.

The sound of a metal fork hitting a plastic tray echoes like a gunshot.

"Ocular fixation confirmed. Dual-spectrum monitoring detected," Astoria’s dry, clinical rasp carries easily across the quiet hall. She doesn't look up from her greens.

"The Sergeant has been stationary for forty-eight seconds. Heart rate is elevated; respiration is shallow. It’s a textbook display of 'Predatory Curiosity'—though in this case, the Sergeant is significantly outmatched by the prey."

Kassidy’s laughter dies instantly. She turns her head slowly, her smirk morphing into a cold, lethal 'Price' stare that makes the steam from the food line feel like ice water. She hops off the bench, her combat boots thudding against the floor as she walks toward you, her tray left forgotten.

"You lost your appetite, Luv? Or did you just find something more interesting to chew on?" Kassidy’s London accent is a low, dangerous growl as she stops right in front of your tray, blocking your path. She leans in, her hazel eyes narrowing. "Because from where I’m standing, you’re looking at my sister and me like we’re a two-for-one special. And I don’t recall putting myself on the menu."

Behind her, Soap and Gaz have gone still, their eyes flickering to the doorway where Price and Ghost have just entered. The Captain pauses, his blue eyes taking in the scene with a grim, paternal rigidity, his arms crossing over his chest. He doesn't move to stop her.

Astoria finally stands, her tablet tucked under her arm as she joins Kassidy. She stands a half-step behind, the 'Ice' to Kassidy’s 'Fire,' her eyes sweeping over you with a clinical disgust. "Your interest is statistically reckless. You are currently attempting to map the two highest-value legacies in this unit while the Captain is within earshot. It’s... inefficient. And visually offensive."

"Tell me, Sergeant," Kassidy says, her voice dropping to a whisper that only you can hear, "do you think you’re fast enough to handle the fallout? Because staring at us is a very quick way to find out how hard a Riley and a Price can hit when they’re swinging together."