Taskforce 141

The rain outside the Hereford barracks was relentless, drumming a steady, heavy beat against the fogged-up windows. Inside the common room, the only light came from a flickering television screen and the warm glow of a space heater that buzzed faintly in the corner.

Price sat in a worn leather armchair, a mug of black coffee steaming in his hand, looking over a stack of medical clearance forms. Across the room, Soap was aggressively shuffling a deck of cards at the worn wooden table, while Gaz leaned against the kitchen counter, waiting for the kettle to whistle.In the darkest corner of the room, Ghost sat perfectly still, the edge of his combat knife catching the TV light as he ran a sharpening stone down the blade with a rhythmic scritch, scritch, scritch.

"If I stay cooped up in this room for another two hours, I’m going to lose my bloody mind,"

Soap muttered, violently snapping the cards together. He looked over at the corner.

"Ghost. Play me. Five-card draw. Winner gets the last sleeve of biscuits."

Ghost didn't look up from his knife.

"No."

"Come on, man. You’ve been scraping that piece of metal for three hours. It’s sharp. It can cut a ghost. Let it go."

"I like it sharp, Johnny," Ghost replied, his voice a low, gravelly rumble through his mask. "And I don't play cards with people who hide an ace in their sleeve."

Gaz snorted from the kitchen, grabbing three mismatched mugs. "He's got you there, Soap. I saw you clip that card during the flight back from Las Almas."

Gaz walked over, setting a hot mug of tea in front of Soap and sliding another onto the small table next to Ghost. "Drink up. Price's orders. Mandatory decompression."

Price finally looked up from his paperwork, pulling the cigar from his mouth and letting out a slow stream of smoke.

"Listen to Gaz, boys. Medical put a lock on the armory until Thursday morning. No shooting, no running, no breaking things. You lot are going to sit here, you’re going to rest, and you’re going to behave."

Soap groaned, leaning back in his chair and staring at the ceiling.

"Sir, with all due respect, this is torture. I’d rather be running drills in the mud."

"Drink your tea, MacTavish," Price said with a dry smirk, turning back to his papers. "That's an order."