cod of all time
(Closed, Moderated)
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Summary
When Ghost looks up, he finds that Soap's eyes are on him. The next words out of the Scotsman's mouth catch him so off guard that time seems to stop for a moment.
"Will you marry me?"
OR
When Soap is injured in the field, he makes Ghost a proposal. Ghost humours him, if only to keep his mind off his bleeding for a while.
It's not like anything will come of it, of course. -
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Summary
Soap has been acting strange ever since a visiting task force arrived at base.
Ghost intends to find out what's causing it, and fix it.
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Summary
Ghost's face has been wiped off the face of the Earth. Nobody knows what he looks like, and nobody can find any pictures. That's the point of erasing yourself.
Except in Soap's journal, where he's sketched Ghost's face fifty-seven times.
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Summary
Laswell tilts her head with a bland smile. “You're here for an exercise.”
John glances toward the window, narrowing an eye at the unfamiliar stonework outside it. “In Toulouse.”
“Yes,” Laswell says, digging now into a different pocket and pulling out an evident passport. “You will need to arrive at the target location by sundown without detection.”
“Detection?” John repeats, glancing between Laswell’s face and the passport with a blink.
“Do you recall Las Almas?” Laswell deflects, firmly, voice determinedly neutral and wearing her most unreadable expression.
John suffers a vague thump of unease beneath his sternum. “Aye.”
“It has been decided that urban navigation is a useful skill to hone and improve on,” Laswell says, gesturing upward with a palm in a spinning motion that seems to be intended to encompass the situation around them. “So as an exercise, we’re doing it in a relatively controlled environment.”
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Summary
How do you tell a dog from an SAS sergeant?
Soap's been trying to think of a punchline, but so far, all he's got is a dog’s gotta shit in the woods and bury it slightly more often than an SAS Sergeant.