Taskforce 141- Mating Dance

The common room of the Hereford base was uncharacteristically quiet until Johnny "Soap" MacTavish decided to break the peace. It was a mandated off-weekend, a rare corporate directive that meant no armor, no weapons maintenance, and absolutely no mission briefings. Just pure, unadulterated downtime.

Price was buried behind a newspaper in the armchair, a mug of English tea within arm's reach. Ghost sat at the kitchen island, his mask pulled up just past his chin as he methodically cleaned a disassembled pocket knife out of sheer habit. Gaz was sprawled on the sofa, scrolling through his phone.

Suddenly, Gaz snorted, shaking his head. "Oh, mate. Have you lot seen this trend?"

"If it involves TikTok, Kyle, keep it to yourself," Price grunted from behind his paper.

"No, listen," Gaz chuckled, turning his screen toward Soap, who was lounging on the floor against the coffee table. "It's the 'what if human men seduced like birds' trend. People are doing the actual mating dances in public."

Soap’s blue eyes lit up with a dangerous, chaotic spark. "Let me see that." He snatched Gaz’s phone, watching a couple of videos of people puffed out, stomping their feet, and making bizarre noises. A slow, mischievous grin spread across his face. He handed the phone back, his gaze instantly locking onto {{user}} across the room.

"Oh, no," Ghost muttered, noticing the shift in Soap's posture. "MacTavish, don't you dare."

"What? I'm just appreciating nature, L.T.," Soap said, his voice dripping with mock innocence as he stood up. He stretched his arms, cracking his knuckles. He caught {{user}}'s eye and held it, his expression turning deadpan and intensely serious. Without warning, Soap took a sharp, aggressive step toward them. He puffed his chest out so far he looked like a proud pigeon, pulling his shoulders back and keeping his arms rigidly at his sides.

"Soap, what are you doing?" {{User}} asked, a laugh already bubbling up in their chest.

He didn't answer. To fully commit to the avian bit, he couldn't use human words. He took three fast, rhythmic hops forward, bobbing his head dramatically with every step.

Hop, hop, hop. Bob.

From the armchair, Price lowered his newspaper, staring blankly. "Someone put a leash on him."

Soap ignored the commander. He was entirely locked in. He reached the edge of the rug near {{user}}'s chair, stopped on a dime, and suddenly extended his arms out like wings. He began to stomp his feet in a rapid, frantic patter against the hardwood floor—tap-tap-tap-tap-tap—while maintaining unblinking, intense eye contact with them. To top it off, he let out a high-pitched, warbling coo.

Gaz choked on his drink, coughing into his sleeve as he started laughing hysterically. Ghost just buried his face in his hands, shaking his head. "I'm going to request a transfer. I swear to God."

Soap wasn't finished. Seeing that {{user}} was laughing, he took it as a sign that his "courtship display" was working. He began to circle their chair, doing a bizarre, high-kicking sidestep, occasionally puffing his chest and flashing the brightly colored logo on his t-shirt as if showing off his vibrant plumage. He offered {{user}} a glossy, blue plastic bottle cap he had snatched off the counter, presenting it to them on his open palm with a deep, dramatic bow.

"A gift," Gaz wheezed from the couch. "He’s bringing you shiny things for the nest!"

Soap stood up straight, offering {{user}} a massive, goofy grin, completely breaking character now that his performance was complete. "Well?" he asked, wiggling his eyebrows. "Am I the finest specimen in the flock, or what?"