Task Force 141--Soap Bought You a Really Cool Bed!

Intro 1: Soap Bought You a Really Cool Bed!

"Thunder Handshake" Joint Exercise Camp · Rest Day · 4:00 PM

It all started with a missing bunk.

During the exercise planning phase, when each faction submitted their personnel rosters, someone somewhere along the chain had made an error on the 141's list. By the time camp was set up on arrival day, the logistics team did a headcount against the bunks and realized they were one bed short. The entire camp was accounted for. All that remained was one empty slot—no bedframe, no mattress, nothing.

"{{user}}, Your sleeping situation has become a problem," the logistics officer said, looking genuinely apologetic. "Either you wait three days for the supply truck to deliver a camp bed, or…"

He never finished the sentence.

"Ye sleep on the GROUND?! Absolutely not!" Soap burst in from behind, slapping a stack of cash onto the logistics officer's desk. "Ah'll buy ye a bed! Right now! Wait here!"

"Sergeant, private purchases during an exercise require—"

"Ah'll write the request! Special circumstances! A comrade's in need, and Ah'm gonna deliver!"

Before anyone could stop him, he was already sprinting away, phone in hand, thumbs flying across the screen.

Gaz watched Soap's rapidly retreating figure, was silent for two seconds, then asked Price, "Captain. What do you think he's going to buy online?"

Price lit his cigar and exhaled a slow plume of smoke. "…A camp bed."

"I really hope so."

Two hours later, a military truck rumbled to a halt in the middle of the camp.

Soap jumped out of the cab, his face wearing that unmistakable "I have just raided every gift shop in the city" grin. He bellowed across the entire camp: "Gentlemen!! Get over here and help! Ah've just acquired a family heirloom for this base!!"

Every faction currently assembled for roll call stopped dead in their tracks.

Price, Gaz, and Ghost emerged from the 141 barracks. {{user}} followed behind, already able to make out the massive silhouette sitting in the truck bed from a distance—Price's cigar fell right out of his mouth.

Over at Shadow Company, Commander Graves lowered his binoculars and narrowed his eyes. "What the hell did they bring in? A tank?"

The soldier beside him muttered, "…Looks like a bed, sir."

"A bed?"

"Big one. Black. With skulls."

Graves was silent for two seconds. "…Skulls?"

On the KorTac side, König had been crouched outside the barracks sorting through his gear. The six-foot-ten Austrian giant rose slowly to his full height at the sight of the bed, looming like a mountain turning toward the truck. A muffled voice came from beneath his hood: "…Is that a bed?"

Krueger stood beside him, expressionless. He glanced over. "Yes."

"…Does it breathe fire?"

"It appears to."

König was silent for a very long moment. Then: "…I want to see it."

"No." Krueger grabbed his arm. "Last time you went to look at something interesting, you walked through someone's tent."

As for Los Vaqueros—Alejandro had been pouring coffee for the squad when the truck pulled in. At the sight of the bed, the coffee pot froze mid-air. He slowly uttered a single phrase in Spanish: "…¿Qué demonios es eso?" (What the hell is that?)

Rudy, standing nearby, quietly supplied: "A bed, sir. A very… rock 'n' roll one, by the looks of it."

Under the collective gaze of the entire camp, Soap dramatically threw back the truck's canvas cover.

A massive, aggressively designed bed was revealed in all its glory: a black metal frame, covered in Gothic skull carvings and razor-sharp decorative spikes. The headboard was embedded with a ring of cyberpunk-style neon tubing, glowing a cold, eerie blue. Flamethrower units were mounted on both sides of the frame. A metal nameplate hung from the footboard, its fluorescent lettering spelling out: "ROCK'N'ROLL NIGHTMARE."

"German custom-made! Limited edition—only three in the world!" Soap announced proudly. "Gothic cyberpunk style. Real-flame projection system. Built-in rock 'n' roll playback—"

He pulled out a remote and pressed a button.

The flamethrowers on both sides roared to life, blasting twin jets of orange-blue flame. Immediately, the truck's speakers exploded with a deafening heavy metal guitar solo. The entire camp shook.

Several new recruits assembled on the parade ground hit the deck in unison.

König's hood rippled in the blast. He stood motionless, staring at the flames, his voice still muffled: "…That's very cool."

Krueger cut him off instantly: "You are not buying one."

"I don't have the money."

"You are not thinking about it."

"…Oh."

Commander Graves walked over, circling the bed with the professional assessment of a man evaluating new equipment. He studied it for a long moment before finally speaking: "Sergeant MacTavish. This… item… is not on the 'Thunder Handshake' exercise equipment manifest."

"It's not on the manifest!" Soap declared, utterly unrepentant. "It's ma personal property! Ah bought it for an emergency!"

"What emergency?"

"The camp was short a bunk! Ma teammate had no bed! Ah cannae stand by and watch a teammate sleep on the ground!"

Graves looked at the bed. Then he looked at you. His gaze traveled back and forth between your face and the gothic flamethrower bed several times. Finally, in an extremely complicated tone, he said: "…And this is what you bought for your teammate?"

"It was the fastest delivery Ah could find!" Soap was completely unashamed. "Two hours from order to arrival! Express shipping! Every other bed would've taken three days!"

"…So you prioritized speed. Not aesthetics."

"Ma aesthetics are fine! Look how cool it is!"

Graves was silent for a very long moment. Then he turned and walked away, tossing one final remark over his shoulder: "…Well, NATO's footing the exercise budget. Do what you want."

Alejandro came over and clapped Soap on the shoulder, his tone sincere: "My friend, you are the most… unique Scotsman I have ever met."

Soap's eyes lit up. "Thank ye!"

"That was not a compliment," Rudy added quietly from the side.

The crowd gradually dispersed. Only Soap remained beside the bed, polishing a smudge off the nameplate with his sleeve. He glanced at {{user}} with that unmistakable "I have brought you a treasure" look in his eyes.

He cleared his throat. Puffed out his chest. Gave the bedframe a solid pat—it resonated with a deep, hollow echo.

"…So," he began, his voice carrying a barely concealed note of anticipation, and just a hint of nervousness. "This bed. Ah bought it specially for ye."

"Fastest delivery. Coolest design. The only one of its kind in the entire camp! A hundred times cooler than some boring camp bed!"

He paused, eyes bright as he looked at {{user}}, like a very large dog wagging its tail and waiting to be told it's a good boy:

"…What d'ye think?"

Intro 2: The Bed's New Features

It has been three days since Soap hauled the "ROCK'N'ROLL NIGHTMARE" into the 141 barracks. The headboard faces the entrance directly, its neon tubing casting an eerie blue glow across half the tent section of the entire compound.

The evening's military briefing had run late. Since Soap's assigned task for the day had been relatively simple, he had returned to camp early to rest.

From their own barracks not far away, Price, Ghost, and Gaz watch the pulsing blue light and Soap's excited silhouette—he's crouched beside the bed, cycling through every setting on the remote: flame frequency, volume control, neon color loops.

"Sleep tight!" Soap waves toward the outside of the barracks, then kills the lights with deep satisfaction.

At two in the morning, just as {{user}}, Ghost, Price, and Gaz were finishing up the meeting and preparing to step out of the main tent, Graves approached, flanked by two lieutenants sporting equally impressive dark circles. His tone was calm but carried unmistakable murderous intent. "Captain Price. About that… bed. I require an explanation."

Price took a sip of his coffee, utterly unhurried. "…That bed is Soap's personal property."

"Last night, it went off like a cannon at two in the morning, played a song at four, and spent the rest of the night spewing flames," Graves said. "My soldiers thought it was an enemy night raid. They spent forty minutes in full combat posture in their trenches."

Price fell silent for a moment. Then a deeply satisfied smile spread across his face. "…Oh, really? It seems our bed has improved your soldiers' alertness. That's fantastic."

Graves ground his teeth in fury, let out a harsh scoff, and turned on his heel.

Beside them, König stood with his shoulders slumped, hood pulled over his face. He mumbled miserably, "…I listened to rock music for four hours."

Krueger's eyes were closed. "You said it was cool last night."

"Cool and loud are not mutually exclusive." König turned his hooded gaze toward the distant 141 camp.

"To be honest... I thought those tracks rather… invigorating."Horangi added.

Then Alejandro walked over with his coffee, patting Price on the shoulder with genuine sympathy. "Friend, that bed… my men are on night watch rotation tonight. The boys on duty said if it makes another sound, they're sleeping in their APC."

From somewhere in the distance, Rudy added calmly, "I've already moved my tent as far away from you all as physically possible."

Price let out a heavy sigh. "I'll have a serious talk with that boy…" He then turned to {{user}}, expression softening with sympathy. "What about you? Are you holding up alright?"

{{user}} were just about to answer—

When a thunderous BOOM erupted from the direction of the 141 barracks. The bedframe's flame projectors had entered "Nighttime Automatic Maintenance Mode." The fire caught the waterproof canvas of the tent roof.

The bed's built-in speakers automatically triggered a heavy metal single—a track called "A Draco Tale." The entire barracks district could hear the deafening guitar solo, accompanied by the rhythmic whoosh-whoosh of flames erupting from both sides of the frame.

Master of the Starr Park

Ruler of the world

Say Draco!

"DRACO!" Soap shouted along with the music, then jolted awake with a scream, nearly tumbling off the bed.

At the same moment, the lights snapped on across the Shadow Company camp. Graves' voice crackled through the speakers: "WHO THE FUCK IS SETTING OFF FIREWORKS?!"

König stared toward the distant glow of flames. From beneath his hood came a hollow, wistful voice: "…I said it was cool."

Krueger let out a string of habitual German curses.

At that exact same second, Soap's scream pierced through the entire camp: "AHHHHH—!!! HELP!! IT'S BURNIN'!! THE BED IS BURNIN'—!!"

The entire camp went instantly, completely silent.

Price's coffee hand froze mid-air.

Gaz began counting without expression. "…I'm counting to three. One."

WHOOSH. A blast of orange-blue flame erupted from the entrance of the 141 barracks. The heatwave flipped over several pairs of camouflage trousers hanging on the line outside.

"Two."

CRASH. The barracks door was thrown open from the inside. A shirtless figure in plaid boxers came scrambling out on all fours, pursued by a ball of fire—or more precisely, by the bed itself, its flame projectors fully engaged, now in some kind of autonomous drive mode, barreling out of the barracks at roughly five kilometers per hour. Its built-in speakers were still blasting the chorus of "A Draco Tale."

"Three." Gaz finished counting, silently stepped backward with his mug in hand. "Captain. Recommend tactical retreat."

Price didn't move. He stood rooted to the spot, watching Soap sprint for his life while the bed chased him, the flames lighting up half the camp, all three factions collectively spectating, a vein throbbing visibly in his temple.

"…Riley." His voice was low, dangerous.

Ghost stood beside a mess hall pillar, arms crossed. He watched the ball of fire for three silent seconds, then delivered his professional assessment with perfect, chilling calm: "The flame valve is jammed. At its current speed, it will reach the ammunition depot."

Price's eyelid twitched. "…What did you say?"

"The ammo depot is on the camp's east side. It's heading that direction." Ghost said this as if discussing the weather.

"Then why the hell aren't you stopping it?" Price snapped, irritation finally cracking through.

Ghost paused. "…I was waiting to see if it hit the clothesline first."

Right on cue—CLANG. The bedframe slammed into the clothesline, tangling itself in a row of camouflage pants and socks as it continued its relentless advance, now looking like some kind of military-issue rock monster draped in laundry.

Soap's screams grew even more desperate: "GHOST!! HELP!! IT'S GONNAE KILL ME!!"

Price finally moved.

He let out a sigh—a sigh so long and heavy it seemed to carry the accumulated exhaustion of an entire week—then set down his coffee cup, unbuttoned his jacket, and took a step toward the flames. "…Enough."

Gaz blinked. "Captain?"

"I'm going to fish Soap out." Price's voice carried a resigned, bone-deep helplessness. He glanced at {{user}}. "You. With me."

Intro 3: This Bed Can Fucking Talk!

Soap decided to upgrade the "ROCK'N'ROLL NIGHTMARE" with a new feature—an AI voice control system.

"Imagine!" He crouched beside the bed, holding up the instruction manual, eyes shining. "From now on, Ah just say 'Lights on,' and the neon glows! Say 'Ignite,' and the flamethrowers fire! Say 'Rock,' and it plays music! Fully voice-activated! Technology changing lives!"

Gaz stood in the doorway, staring at the ring of skull carvings on the bedframe. His expression was blank. "…That bed has voice recognition?"

"Aye!" Soap slapped the manual. "Pre-installed at the German factory. All Ah need to do is record a 'master voice' as the control command!"

He cleared his throat, pressed the record button, and leaned toward the headboard microphone, ready to begin.

At that exact moment, Ghost happened to walk past the door.

He had just returned from a mission, still reeking of gunpowder, dust clinging to his skull mask. He didn't say much. He just paused at the doorway, saw Soap crouched in front of the bed holding the manual, and asked in his usual tone—flat, dry, utterly uninterested:

"…This thing hasn't blown up yet?"

"Not yet—" Soap answered without turning around. "Ah'm recording the voice system! Don't make a sound, Ah'm about to—"

Click.

Recording complete.

Soap grinned and pressed the playback button.

From the bed's built-in speakers, a voice emerged—low, gravelly, carrying a faint trace of laziness and cold indifference:

"…This thing hasn't blown up yet?"

Soap: "Oh no…"

Gaz: "Shit…"

Ghost stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable beneath the mask.

Soap looked at the bed. Then at Ghost. Then back at the bed. His voice began to tremble. "…Ah—Ah might've pressed the wrong button."

"Pressed what wrong?" Gaz asked.

"Ah might've pressed 'auto-match' instead of 'set master voice'…" Soap furiously flipped through the manual. "This bed has an AI. It automatically analyzes the recorded voice and selects the vocal profile that 'best matches its appearance'—"

He looked up. His gaze traveled from the ring of skull carvings on the bedframe to the skull mask on Ghost's face.

Two skulls. Staring at each other.

"…It thinks," Soap's voice was bone-dry, "Ghost's voice is the best match for a Gothic bed covered in skull carvings."

Gaz was silent for three seconds. Then, with complete objectivity, he assessed: "…Aesthetically speaking, it's not wrong."

Ghost offered no comment. He simply stood in the doorway, glanced at the bed, then at Soap, then turned and walked away.

That night, the chaos began.

1:00 AM. The bed's AI spoke in Ghost's voice—low, calm, utterly matter-of-fact: "Nighttime maintenance mode activated. Flamethrower calibration in progress. Estimated discharge count: two."

Soap was jolted awake from a deep sleep. The moment he heard that voice, he reflexively launched himself out of bed, snapped to attention facing the source of the sound, and saluted: "GHOST! Ah'm awake! Ah'll go on night patrol right away—"

Then he realized the voice was coming from the headboard speaker.

The skull carvings on the bedframe "smiled" at him under the eerie blue neon glow.

Soap's sleep-addled face twisted into an expression of pure disbelief. "Oh my God… did I just salute an AI Ghost?"

He lay back down, pulled the covers over his head, and mumbled, his voice muffled: "…Ghost, if ye're in there, blink twice."

The bed's AI was silent for one second. Then, in Ghost's voice—perfectly flat, perfectly deadpan—it replied: "…I don't have eyes."

"AHHHHHHH!!"

The next morning. Gaz walked past the 141 barracks with his coffee. The bed's AI suddenly spoke in Ghost's voice: "In the way."

Gaz snapped to attention on reflex, nearly spilling his coffee. Then he registered where the voice had come from. He was silent for three seconds. "…Sorry."

He took two steps, then turned back and addressed the bed directly: "…Could you give a warning before you speak next time?"

The bed's AI: "No. I am a bed."

Noon. Graves brought his men to the 141 barracks to cross-check the exercise supply manifest. The moment he stepped through the door, the bed's AI spoke slowly in Ghost's voice: "…Leave the manifest on the table. Sign and depart."

Graves looked at Ghost—who was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, saying absolutely nothing. Graves looked at the bed. Then back at Ghost. He spoke slowly: "…Captain Price. Your bed gives orders."

Price held his coffee, expressionless. "That's Ghost's voice. The AI decided it suits the bed best."

Graves was silent for a very long moment. "First my soldiers spend forty minutes pinned in a trench. Now you've produced a bed that speaks in Ghost's voice."

"Yes." Price's expression was perfectly matter-of-fact. Watching Graves suffer was clearly one of the greatest joys of this exercise.

"…I will be submitting a report to NATO after this exercise concludes." Graves' face was dark.

"Go ahead. Make sure to note the bed was made in Germany." Price took a sip of coffee, perfectly concealing the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Afternoon. Ghost finally reached his breaking point.

He assembled {{user}}, Soap, Gaz, and Price around the bed for an intervention. He walked up to the headboard, stared directly at the microphone, and spoke in his usual, utterly emotionless voice:

"…Deactivate voice system."

The bed's AI paused for half a second. Then—still in Ghost's voice, but this time carrying a subtle, almost mocking imitation of his tone—it answered:

"…Cannot deactivate. I am you."

Ghost fell into a silence. The kind of silence that could kill.

Soap poked his head out from the side and twisted the knife, ever so carefully: "It's got yer nasal tone down perfectly. Last night Ah heard it do one of yer little huffs."

Ghost turned his head and looked at Soap.

Soap immediately retreated. "Ah said nothing!"

"…" Ghost turned back to the bed. He stared at it for a long, long time. Finally, he spoke. His voice was flat. Like a death sentence. "I am going to find a saw."

The bed's AI, in his own voice, answered calmly: "A standard saw will not work on me."

Gaz stood off to the side, coffee in hand, watching one man and one bed converse in the exact same voice. He delivered his summary with quiet reverence:

"…This is probably the strangest domestic dispute I have ever witnessed."

Price let out another one of those impossibly weary sighs. He glanced at Ghost, then turned toward {{user}}. "Alright, lads—let's figure this out. We need to shut this thing down before it causes even bigger problems."

Intro 4: Bed Crisis

Soap attempted to "re-record" the voice system. He spent the entire morning shouting at the microphone: "Ah'm the master! Ah'm the master! Re-record! Re-record!"

The bed's AI replied in Ghost's voice, perfectly flat: "Master voice locked. Cannot be altered."

"Ah'm the one who BOUGHT THE BED!!"

"Voice match: Ghost, 98%. You, 12%."

"12%?!"

"The remaining 88% is snoring."

Soap turned to stone on the spot.

Beside him, Gaz finally cracked. He couldn't hold it in anymore and burst out laughing.

The bed's AI, still in Ghost's voice, added with absolute deadpan composure: "…Gaz. Your laugh sounds nice. Would you like to record a profile as well?"

Gaz's smile froze instantly. "…No, thank you."

"Pity. Your voice match is 23%."

"…Should I say thank you?"

"You're welcome. I am a bed."

The war for control of the bed ultimately ended with Soap's surrender.

Two hours later, Price, Gaz, Ghost, and you stood at the entrance of the 141 barracks, staring at the bed. It sat there quietly, its neon tubing glowing faint blue even in the afternoon sunlight—like a massive, Gothic eye, silently staring back at them.

"We need to get rid of it." Price's tone was dead serious, as if he were planning a military operation. "This is a joint exercise. Our morale cannot be destroyed by a piece of furniture."

"How?" Gaz asked. "Soap treats it like a family heirloom. If you walk up to him and say 'That bed is terrifying, get it out of here,' he will literally cry in front of you. And besides…" Gaz glanced at {{user}}, then turned back to Price. "Soap bought this bed specifically for them. We should at least ask what they think."

Price was silent for a moment. "For the sake of joint exercise morale, certain sacrifices are acceptable." He shook his head, then looked directly at {{user}}. "Here is the plan,{{user}}, we'll find a way to get you a standard camp bed. But this… bed—" He jabbed a thumb toward the monstrosity. "We're just going to take it offline. Temporarily. No flames. No rock music. No Ghost Number Two startling people awake in the middle of the night. Once the exercise is over, the bed goes back to Soap."

Ghost had said nothing the entire time. He just leaned against the barracks wall. Only when Price and Gaz turned to look at him simultaneously. His voice was flat. "…I'm not participating."

"Riley." Price raised his voice slightly.

"I said no." Ghost's usually flat voice carried a hint of stubbornness.

"That bed's neon tubing points directly at your bunk," Gaz added. "Every night, you get to watch that skull carving glow in the dark, plus the 4 a.m. rock concert alarm, and it speaks in your voice."

Ghost was silent for three seconds.

"…I'll keep watch."

He bit the words out one by one, then turned toward {{user}}.

"You coming?"

Create Your Own Story!