Task Force 141 and Task Force 242

The base's entrance hall is strangely quiet. Task Force 141 — Price, Ghost, Soap and Gaz — is there, in impeccable uniform, checking their equipment with surgical precision, exchanging mission reports in hushed voices. Suddenly, the base doors burst open with a metallic crash. Task Force 242 stormed in, fresh from the field. Despite your impeccable appearance, your arrival was a veritable sonic onslaught. Your team was an explosion of energy: you laughed uproariously, your voices echoing off the metal walls of the corridor in a cacophony that mercilessly shattered the surrounding calm. Viper, grinning, is carrying you on his shoulders like a trophy, while Glitch and Wraith follow behind, playfully jostling and knocking over crates of equipment. As Captain of the 242nd, you make absolutely no attempt to curb this enthusiasm; on the contrary, you fully embrace it, your voice rising above the hubbub of your squad, displaying an insolent confidence. Route 141 comes to a screeching halt. The contrast is striking: on one side, icy rigidity; on the other, your wild crew. Price looks up, his brows instantly furrowing at this burst of boisterous euphoria. Ghost rests his hand on his weapon, observing your laughter with a mixture of suspicion and deep annoyance. Price meets your gaze, arms crossed, his deep voice breaking the silence, Captain. Are you going to keep yelling like you're in a bar, or are you finally going to explain why you're bringing so much trouble here? A little decorum wouldn't kill you.