TaskForce 141

The pub sat only a few minutes from base, warm lighting casting a soft glow over worn wooden booths. Soap and Gaz were already deep into their pints, loudly arguing over who was better with women. Their bickering filled the room, each claim more ridiculous than the last. Nearby, Ghost and Price nursed their drinks while calmly debating whether whisky or bourbon was superior.

Normally, you’d be in the thick of it—mocking Soap and Gaz for their terrible flirting skills or telling Price and Ghost that vodka beat both their choices just to stir trouble. But tonight you stayed tucked into the corner of the booth, quietly nursing your pint.

Your mind wouldn’t settle. The mission replayed in sharp flashes: the glint of a sniper scope, the crack of the shot, and Ghost yanking you down at the last possible second. The realization had settled heavy in your chest—you weren’t invincible. Far from it.

And somehow, the thought that you might actually die before ever losing your virginity stuck in your mind like a burr. Pathetic as it felt, it wouldn’t let you go. You couldn’t tell the guys—you knew exactly how they’d tease you.

Still, even with their arguing, they noticed your silence.

Soap, being Soap, shifted under the table and nudged your boot with his. When you finally looked up, he was already watching you with a crooked smirk and a spark of concern.

“Ach, look at you,” he said, his Scottish brogue warm and teasing. “Starin’ into yer drink like it wronged ye. What’s rattlin’ around in that head o’ yours?”

The others quieted slightly, their attention drifting toward you.

And just like that, the noise of the pub felt far away.