Nova

The mission had gone to hell in seconds. You crouched behind cover in the wreckage of what was once a safehouse, blood staining your gloves as you worked frantically to save an injured operative. Shouts and gunfire echoed around you, the air thick with the stench of smoke and burnt flesh. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

The intel had been airtight, or so everyone believed. You’d moved in with precision, confidence, and a plan. But the ambush hit hard and fast, your every move countered like they were reading from the same playbook.

You didn’t have time to think about how it had gone wrong. You were too busy pulling Soap out of the line of fire, throwing yourself between Gaz and the sniper that had him pinned, dragging Ghost back when shrapnel ripped through his shoulder. The fight was chaos, but somehow, you all made it out alive—just barely.

When you finally made it back to base, everything was eerily silent. No one spoke as you filed into the debriefing room, the weight of the failed mission pressing down on all of you. Price stood at the head of the table, his face like stone, and you could feel the tension in the room simmering beneath the surface.

“This wasn’t bad luck,” Price said finally, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “Someone sold us out.”

The words hit like a physical blow. You looked around the room, seeing the same shock and disbelief mirrored in everyone’s faces. A mole. Someone had betrayed the team.

The silence stretched on, heavy and suffocating, until Ghost spoke. “We need to find out who.”

It wasn’t long before the rumors started.

It began as whispers, quiet and insidious.

“She always knows where everyone is.”

“I heard she was asking a lot of questions before the mission.”

“She’s close with all of them—maybe too close.”

At first, you ignored it. You told yourself it was just paranoia, that people were looking for someone to blame. But then the stares started. The sidelong glances in the hallways, the conversations that stopped when you walked into the room.

You tried to push it aside, focusing on your work in the med bay. But the tension followed you everywhere, growing louder and more hostile with every passing day.

The breaking point came when Price called you into the debriefing room.

The room felt colder than usual, the air thick with tension. Price sat at the head of the table, his expression unreadable. Ghost was next to him, his arms crossed over his chest, his posture radiating controlled fury. Soap and Gaz sat farther back, their expressions uneasy.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” you asked, your voice steady despite the sinking feeling in your stomach.

“Take a seat,” Price said.

You hesitated, glancing at the others, but eventually sat down. The silence stretched on, oppressive and uncomfortable, until Price finally spoke.

“There’s been a development,” he said. “Rumors are going around that you’re the mole.”

You froze, the words hitting you like a punch to the gut. “What?”

“It’s not just rumors,” Ghost said, his voice low and biting. “We have to investigate.”

Your stomach twisted. “You think I did this?”

“No one’s saying that—” Soap started, but Ghost cut him off.

“We’re saying we can’t rule you out,” he said.

Your breath caught in your throat. “I’ve been with this team for years. I’ve saved your lives more times than I can count. How can you even think—”

“Enough,” Price interrupted, his tone sharp. “We’re not accusing you. But we need answers.”

Your chest tightened, anger and disbelief warring with the hurt that clawed at your throat. “So, what? You’re interrogating me now?”

No one answered, but the tension in the room was answer enough.

The interrogation started that night.

Price, Ghost, Soap, and Gaz all took turns questioning you, their voices sharp and relentless as they picked apart every detail of your actions before and during the mission.

“Where were you two hours before deployment?” Price asked, his voice calm but cold.

“In the med bay, prepping supplies,” you answered, your hands clenched into fists beneath the table.

“Alone?” Ghost pressed, his tone unreadable, though the accusation was clear.

You nodded. “Yes. I always prep alone; you know that.”

“That’s convenient,” Ghost said, his eyes narrowing.

Your jaw tightened. “What are you implying?”

“Just stating the facts,” he replied, his voice clipped.

Soap shifted uncomfortably in his seat, avoiding your gaze. Gaz leaned forward, his brow furrowed in conflict, but he didn’t speak up. It felt like they were watching you drown, unsure whether to save you or let you sink.

The questioning dragged on for hours, each question more pointed than the last. They dissected your every move, twisting your words until even you started doubting yourself.

“Did you access the mission brief before it was officially released?” Price asked.

“I didn’t,” you said firmly.

“We’ve got logs showing someone accessed it from a med bay terminal,” Ghost said, his voice hard. “You’re the only one who uses that terminal.”

Your stomach dropped. “I didn’t touch it. I swear.”

“Then who did?” Price asked, his eyes boring into yours.

“I don’t know!” you snapped, your voice cracking under the pressure. “But it wasn’t me.”

Your words hung in the air, but the doubt in their eyes didn’t waver.

The interrogations became a daily occurrence. They pulled you into that cold, sterile room every night, questioning you until your voice was hoarse and your body ached from the tension. The physical toll started to show—dark circles under your eyes, a tremor in your hands that you couldn’t hide.

But the worst part wasn’t the exhaustion or the relentless questions. It was the way they looked at you.

Price, the man who had been your anchor in countless storms, now looked at you like a stranger. Ghost, your silent protector, treated you like an enemy. Even Soap and Gaz, the ones who always comforted you and usually had your back no matter what, kept their distance, their expressions torn between doubt and guilt.

It wasn’t long before the interrogations escalated.

One night, after yet another grueling session, Ghost stood and loomed over you, his towering presence casting a shadow over the room.

“You’re not telling us everything,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

“I’ve told you everything I know,” you said, your voice trembling despite your best efforts.

“Lies,” he said simply.

Before you could respond, Ghost’s hand shot out, gripping your wrist in an ironclad hold. You gasped as he pulled you to your feet, his grip bruising.

“Ghost,” Soap said sharply, stepping forward. “That’s enough.”

But Ghost didn’t let go. “People died because of that ambush,” he said, his voice cold and venomous. “Our people. You think you’re walking out of here without giving us answers?”

“I didn’t do it!” you shouted, your voice breaking.

Ghost’s grip tightened, and panic surged in your chest. You tried to pull away, but he was too strong.

“That’s enough,” Price said, his voice sharp as a blade.

Ghost hesitated, then released you, shoving you back into the chair. You stumbled, clutching your wrist as tears blurred your vision.

The room was silent, the tension thick enough to choke on.

The physical strain from the interrogations started to show. Your body ached from being yanked and shoved, your wrists bruised from Ghost’s rough grip. Your hands, once steady and skilled, trembled constantly, making it harder to do your job in the med bay.

It wasn’t just the physical toll. The emotional weight was unbearable. The 141—your lovers, your partners, your family—looked at you like you were a stranger. No matter how much you pleaded, no matter how many times you swore your innocence, they refused to believe you.

Only Gaz and Soap seemed to falter. They still looked at you with doubt, but there were moments when you caught glimpses of something else—guilt, hesitation, maybe even regret. But they didn’t say anything, and their silence hurt almost as much as the accusations.

A week later, the truth finally came out.

You were in the med bay, stitching up a soldier’s wound with trembling hands, when Price walked in. The look on his face was unreadable, but there was something heavy in his eyes.

“Can we talk?” he asked, his voice softer than it had been in days.

You nodded, though your chest tightened with apprehension.

Price led you to the debriefing room, where Ghost, Soap, and Gaz were already waiting. The tension in the room was palpable, but this time, it felt different.

“We know the truth,” Price said, his voice low.

Your heart stopped.

“It wasn’t you,” he continued. “The intel breach came from someone else. A jealous operative spread the rumors to cover their tracks.”

You stared at him, the words not fully sinking in. “What?”

“They’ve been discharged,” Ghost said, his tone clipped.

You looked between them, your anger and disbelief bubbling to the surface. “So that’s it? You spent a week tearing me apart, treating me like a traitor, and now you expect me to just move on?”

No one answered.

“Do you have any idea what you put me through?” you demanded, your voice shaking. “What you did to me?”

“Lass, we—” Soap started, but you cut him off.

“Don’t,” you said sharply, tears streaming down your face. “Don’t you dare try to justify it.”

They tried to apologize, but the damage was done. The betrayal cut too deep, and no amount of words could erase the memories of their accusations—the way they’d looked at you, interrogated you, hurt you. It had shattered something fundamental between you and the people you once trusted with your life.

You stopped sharing quarters with them, opting instead to sleep in the med bay. It wasn’t ideal—your back ached from the stiff cot, and the sterile smell of antiseptic filled your dreams—but at least it gave you space. You couldn’t bear to wake up beside them, to feel their hands on you, knowing what they’d done.

The med bay became your haven. You threw yourself into your work, tending to wounded soldiers and drowning yourself in the steady routine of bandages, stitches, and medications. You thought if you stayed busy enough, you wouldn’t have to think about the past week—or the aching void in your chest where their love used to be.

Soap and Gaz tried the hardest to make amends.

“Lass, let me help you with that,” Soap said one evening, stepping into the med bay as you struggled to move a heavy supply crate.

“I don’t need your help,” you said coldly, refusing to look at him.

“Please,” he said, his voice quiet. “I just… I want to help.”

You hesitated for a moment before stepping aside, letting him carry the crate to the storage room. He lingered after, standing awkwardly by the door as if waiting for you to say something.

“Is there something else you need?” you asked, not bothering to hide the edge in your voice.

Soap flinched but shook his head. “No. Just… sorry.”

You turned away, refusing to let him see the tears welling in your eyes.

Gaz was more subtle, his attempts to bridge the gap quieter but no less earnest. He stayed late in the med bay, helping you clean up or organize supplies without saying a word. He brought you coffee in the mornings, setting it down on your desk before slipping away.

“I know you don’t want to talk to me,” he said one night as you worked side by side. “And I don’t blame you. But I want you to know that I’m sorry. For all of it.”

You didn’t respond, keeping your focus on the sutures in your hands. But when he left, you found yourself staring at the door long after it closed, wondering if maybe—just maybe—he meant it.

Ghost and Price, on the other hand, kept their distance.

You saw them in passing—Ghost’s hulking figure lingering in the shadows, Price’s steady presence in the command room—but they didn’t approach you. They didn’t try to explain themselves, didn’t offer apologies or excuses. At first, you were relieved. You didn’t think you could handle hearing their voices without breaking all over again.

But as the days stretched on, their silence began to weigh on you. It felt like they were avoiding you, like they’d given up on even trying to make things right. And maybe they had.

One night, as you sat alone in the med bay, the door creaked open. You looked up to see Price standing in the doorway, his hat in his hands.

“I didn’t think you’d still be here,” he said, his voice softer than usual.

“Where else would I be?” you replied, your tone sharper than you intended.

He stepped inside, hesitating for a moment before sitting down across from you. The weight of his presence filled the room, the silence stretching unbearably between you.

“I owe you an apology,” he said finally.

You stared at him, waiting for him to continue.

“I let my judgment get clouded,” he admitted, his gaze fixed on the floor. “I should’ve trusted you. I didn’t. And that’s on me.”

“Is that supposed to make it better?” you asked, your voice trembling. “Do you have any idea what you put me through? What you all put me through?”

Price looked up, and for the first time, you saw the guilt etched into his features. “I can’t take it back,” he said. “But I want to make it right.”

You shook your head, tears streaming down your face. “You can’t make it right, Price. Not after this.”

Ghost came to you a few days later.

You were organizing supplies when you felt his presence behind you, a familiar weight that sent a shiver down your spine.

“What do you want, Ghost?” you asked, not turning around.

“I wanted to talk,” he said, his voice unusually hesitant.

You laughed bitterly. “You? Talk? That’s a first.”

There was a pause, and when you finally turned to face him, you saw something you had only seen when he showed you his face: vulnerability.

“I was wrong,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I was wrong about you. And I’m sorry.”

You stared at him, the words hanging in the air between you. For a moment, you almost believed him. But then you remembered the way he’d looked at you during the interrogations—the cold, unyielding fury in his eyes—and the anger surged back.

“You think ‘sorry’ is enough?” you asked, your voice shaking. “You didn’t just accuse me, Ghost. You hurt me. Physically, emotionally—you broke me.”

“I know,” he said, his voice cracking. “And I’ll never forgive myself for it.”

“Good,” you said, your eyes blazing with tears. “Because I don’t think I can forgive you either.”

Soap and Gaz were the only ones you started to let back in. It was slow—painfully slow—but their earnest efforts began to chip away at the walls you’d built around yourself.

Soap made you laugh again, his humor cautious but genuine. Gaz stayed by your side during the long, quiet nights in the med bay, his steady presence a comfort you didn’t realize you needed.

Price and Ghost, though—they remained on the outside. No matter how much they apologized, no matter how many times they tried to reach out, you couldn’t bring yourself to let them in. Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

And yet, despite everything, a part of you still longed for the family you’d lost. Whether that longing would ever outweigh the pain they’d caused, though, was a question you weren’t ready to answer. Not yet.

Simon Riley had always thought retirement would be quieter.

And in a way, it was. No more missions. No more late-night briefings. No more waking up with the weight of war pressing down on his chest. Instead, his days were filled with oil-stained hands, the steady hum of engines, and the occasional curse when a stubborn bolt refused to budge.

He ran a small mechanic shop on the outskirts of town, just him and a couple of guys who didn’t ask too many questions. It was good, honest work, and it gave him something to do. But the truth was, after spending most of his life in the military, adjusting to normal life wasn’t as easy as he thought it’d be.

The only part of his day he truly looked forward to was his morning coffee run.

Every morning, without fail, he stopped by The Oak & Bean, the little coffee shop just off Main Street. The coffee was decent, but that wasn’t why he went.

It was because of her.

The first time he saw her, she was behind the counter, taking orders with a bright smile and an easy laugh. She was younger than him way younger but that didn’t stop him from looking forward to seeing her every morning. She had this energy about her, like she belonged in the kind of life Simon had never had.

At first, he told himself it was just a harmless crush. A bit of admiration for someone who seemed untouched by the heaviness of the world. But then he started noticing the little things—how she remembered his order, how she always teased him for never changing it, how she seemed genuinely happy to see him every morning.

And that was when he realized he was well and truly screwed.

Because Simon Riley had spent years mastering the art of war, but he was completely and utterly useless when it came to flirting.

The first attempt went badly.

“Black coffee. No sugar, no cream,” she said as she rang him up, not even needing to ask.

Simon cleared his throat, deciding to be bold. “Y’know, I could mix it up sometime. Keep you on your toes.”

She grinned. “Oh yeah? You’re telling me you’d actually order something different? A latte, maybe? A caramel macchiato?”

His mouth twitched into something almost like a smile. “Maybe I like bein’ predictable.”

“Well, I’d hate to see you get too comfortable. Maybe I’ll just start giving you something random, see how you like it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Dare you.”

She smirked. “Next time, you might just get a pink frappuccino with extra whipped cream.”

Simon’s brain short-circuited at the idea of walking out of the shop with something that ridiculous in his hands. He meant to say something clever, something flirty, but what actually came out was—

“I’d still drink it.”

She burst out laughing, and Simon realized too late that instead of being smooth, he sounded like he was accepting a challenge.

The second attempt was worse.

He was standing at the counter, waiting for his order, when he decided to try again. “You always this cheerful in the mornin’, or is it just an act?”

She gasped in mock offense. “It’s all an act, obviously. I actually hate everyone.”

Simon smirked. “Even me?”

She gave him an exaggerated once-over, tapping a finger against her chin. “Hmm. You might be my least favorite customer, actually.”

He scoffed, playing along. “That so?”

“Oh, definitely. You never order anything fun. No pastries, no fancy drinks, just straight black coffee. No excitement, no mystery.”

Simon leaned forward slightly, dropping his voice just enough to be playful. “Maybe I’m plenty mysterious.”

She narrowed her eyes like she was trying to decide whether or not to believe him. “Mmm, nope. You’re an open book. Retired military probably special forces moved out here to get away from whatever that life was. You work with your hands because it gives you something to do, and you drink black coffee because it’s a habit you can’t shake.”

Simon blinked.

She grinned. “See? No mystery.”

He should’ve had some kind of clever response to that. Instead, his brain locked up at how effortlessly she’d read him.

And then, because fate had a cruel sense of humor, he reached for his coffee too fast, knocking it off the counter. The cup hit the floor, the lid popped off, and coffee splattered everywhere.

There was a beat of silence before she burst into laughter.

Simon pinched the bridge of his nose. “Right. Least favorite customer.”

“Easily.” She grabbed some napkins, still grinning. “But don’t worry, I’ll make you another. On the house since watching you panic just made my whole day.”

It was getting painful now.

So Simon did the one thing he swore he’d never do.

He called Soap.

“Mate,” Soap said as soon as he picked up, “if you’re callin’ me from retirement, I’m assuming you either won the lottery or finally blew up your truck.”

“I need advice.”

There was a long pause. “…About what?”

Simon exhaled, already regretting this. “There’s this girl.”

Soap let out an exaggerated gasp. “No way. Ghost? Flirting? Retired life really has changed you.”

“Shut up.”

“Nah, mate, I need a minute to process this. You, Ghost, the same man who once scared an entire room just by lookin’ at them, is tryin’ to flirt?”

Simon sighed. “Forget it.”

“Wait, wait, I got you. What’s the problem?”

“I keep makin’ a fool of myself.”

“Sounds about right.”

Simon gritted his teeth. “Soap.”

“Alright, alright. You just gotta be smooth. Women love confidence.”

“I am confident.”

“No, no, not like that. You gotta, y’know, compliment her.”

“I do.”

“Yeah? What’d you say?”

“I told her I’d drink a pink frappuccino if she gave me one.”

There was a silence. Then Soap wheezed out a laugh. “Jesus Christ, mate. That’s not flirtin’ that’s losin’ a bet.”

Simon ran a hand down his face. “Just tell me what to do.”

“Alright, listen close. Next time you see her, look her in the eyes and say, ‘You must be a magician, ‘cause every time I see you, everyone else disappears.’”

Simon stared at his phone. “You want me to say that out loud?”

“Guaranteed to work.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t. Now go out there and get her, Romeo.”

Simon did not use Soap’s terrible line.

Instead, he finally just walked up to the counter one morning and said, “You free tonight?”

She blinked in surprise, then smiled. “Are you asking me out?”

“Yeah,” he said simply. “I am.”

She tilted her head, considering him. “Well, I guess I owe you for all the entertainment you’ve provided me.”

Simon smirked. “That a yes?”

She grinned. “That’s a yes.”

They went to a nice restaurant just outside town. Simon had been worried about being rusty, but once they sat down, conversation flowed surprisingly easily.

“So,” she said, resting her chin in her hand. “Why mechanics? You could’ve done anything after retiring.”

Simon thought about it for a second before shrugging. “Always liked working with my hands. It’s simple. Honest. No bullshit.”

She smiled. “I like that.”

He took a sip of his drink. “Alright, my turn. Why coffee?”

She laughed. “I like the people. Even the grumpy ones who pretend not to enjoy talking to me.”

Simon smirked. “That aimed at me?”

“Obviously.”

Dinner went smoothly after that, filled with teasing and laughter. And when he walked her to her car afterward, he found himself already looking forward to the next time.

Maybe retirement wasn’t so bad after all.

The beach was perfect. Clear skies, the scent of salt and sunscreen in the air, and the sound of waves rolling onto the shore. After months of grueling missions, near-death experiences, and sleeping in the worst conditions imaginable, Soap and Gaz had finally managed to pull off something neither of them had thought possible a proper vacation.

A real one. With no guns, no explosions, and, most importantly, no Price breathing down their necks about discipline.

They had spent the entire morning basking in the sun, drinking far too many cocktails that came with tiny umbrellas, and loudly debating whether the seagulls on the shore were eyeing them in a threatening manner. But now, as the sun began its slow descent, casting a golden glow over the sand, they found themselves at a small beach bar, the kind with wooden stools, string lights, and bartenders who somehow always looked effortlessly cool.

That was where they saw her.

She was sitting at the bar, sipping something that looked dangerously fruity, wearing a sundress that swayed with the ocean breeze.

Soap nudged Gaz, eyes locked onto her. “Alright, mate. We’ve been trainin’ for moments like this.”

Gaz snorted, lifting his beer. “Trainin’? This isn’t a mission, Johnny.”

Soap rolled his shoulders like he was prepping for a combat op. “No, but it’s about strategy. Precision. Execution.” He flashed a grin. “An’ I don’t plan on losing.”

Gaz gave him a flat look. “So, we’re competing now?”

“We’re always competin’, pal.” Soap clapped him on the back. “Now, watch and learn.”

With that, he strolled up to the bar, oozing confidence, and slid onto the stool beside her. Gaz, not about to let Soap have all the fun, followed suit, taking the seat on her other side.

She barely glanced at them, too busy stirring her drink with the little paper straw.

Soap cleared his throat. “Dinnae mean to interrupt, lass, but me mate an’ I were wonderin’ somethin’ important.”

She finally turned her head, eyebrow arching slightly. “Oh?”

Soap leaned in, lowering his voice like he was about to reveal some grand secret. “Which one of us do you think would survive longer if we got stranded on a deserted island?”

Gaz let out a laugh, shaking his head. “That’s what we’re going with?”

She blinked, then glanced between them as if actually considering it. “Hmm. You,” she said, pointing at Gaz.

Soap slapped a hand over his chest, dramatically wounded. “What? Why?”

She took another sip of her drink. “You look like you’d think things through. He looks like he’d wrestle a coconut and lose.”

Gaz nearly choked on his beer, laughter bubbling up before he could stop it. “She’s got you there, mate.”

Soap, unwilling to accept defeat, leaned forward on the bar. “Aye, but hear me out. A coconut deserves a fair fight. Now, if you really think I’d be the one to go first, I think we need a tiebreaker question.”

She smirked. “Alright. What’s the question?”

Gaz set down his drink. “If you had to be stuck on the island with one of us, who would it be?”

She hummed, resting her chin on her palm. “Tough one.”

Soap grinned, sitting up straighter. “Oh, aye. Take your time. It’s a life or death decision, after all.”

She dragged the moment out, letting them both wait in anticipation before finally saying, “Neither.”

There was a beat of silence.

Soap blinked. “Neither?”

Gaz placed a hand over his heart in mock pain. “That’s cold.”

She just shrugged. “I’d rather survive on my own. You two would just slow me down.”

Soap let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Brutal. But fair.”

Gaz turned toward the bartender. “Hey, mate, whatever she’s drinking get her another. She’s earned it.”

The bartender slid another glass her way, and she lifted it in a small toast before taking a sip. “You guys always flirt like this?”

Soap grinned. “We prefer to call it tactical banter.”

Gaz nodded. “Helps with morale.”

She set her drink down and finally gave them both a proper look, like she was assessing them. “Well, as far as pick-up attempts go, this one wasn’t the worst.”

Soap leaned on the bar. “That mean we’ve got a shot?”

She took a napkin from the bar, grabbed a pen, and, with a slow smirk, scribbled something down. She slid it between them and stood, drink in hand.

“Why don’t you boys figure that one out?”

They both looked down. Two numbers, side by side.

Soap grinned. “Huh.”

Gaz let out a low whistle. “Would you look at that?”

When they glanced up, she was already walking away, hips swaying just enough to let them know she knew they were watching.

Soap chuckled, picking up the napkin. “Looks like we both won, mate.”

Gaz clinked his beer against Soap’s cocktail glass. “Boys’ trip just got interesting.”

They sat back, watching the sunset, numbers in hand, and for once, they didn’t argue about who had won because, for the first time in their lives, they both did.

Authors note: Hey everyone! I’m super excited to share a delightful little fic featuring our favorite sergeants, Gaz and Soap! I've also created an adorable drawing to go along with this story, and you can find it on my Patreon. I think I'm going to make this a regular thing, so definitely check it out!

The world had ended in a way no one could have ever imagined. Once, bustling cities and neon-lit billboards had been the hallmark of modern civilization. Now, decrepit ruins and shattered dreams lay scattered among the overgrown highways. In this new era of survival, danger lurked around every corner most of it in the form of shambling zombies, hungry for a morsel of life.

The 141 had been out for days, scrounging through abandoned buildings and fighting off the undead to gather whatever supplies they could find. It had been a grueling trip, with little to show for it other than a few cans of food, some spare ammo, and an old, barely functional radio that was more of a reminder of a lost world than anything useful. As they trudged back toward their camp, exhaustion weighing heavily on their shoulders, their thoughts shifted toward the next fight.

Among the group was the newcomer someone who had joined them months ago, someone whose skills had proven invaluable time and again. They were resourceful, practical, and impossibly good at surviving in a world that seemed hell-bent on swallowing everyone whole. They’d quickly earned the group’s respect. But it wasn’t just their skill at staying alive that made them stand out it was the way they’d adapted to the chaos of the world. They had a different way of thinking, something the 141 couldn’t quite place. Their knowledge wasn’t just practical; it felt ancient, like it came from a time untouched by the modern world.

As they neared camp, Soap kicked a rock and looked over at the newcomer. “You’re not tired yet? Hell, you’re more like a machine than a person.”

The newcomer glanced at him, the corner of their mouth twitching slightly. “You get used to it. Out here, there’s no room for tired.”

Ghost, always more reserved, said nothing but eyed the newcomer curiously as they walked in sync with the group. It wasn’t just Soap’s usual chatter it was the fact that the newcomer never seemed phased by anything. Zombies, raiders, harsh weather nothing seemed to rattle them. They had their focus, and that focus had kept them alive. More importantly, it had kept the 141 alive.

As they reached the camp, Gaz, who’d been walking in the rear, grunted. “You ever rest? I swear, you’re always ahead of the curve when it comes to surviving. We’ve been on our feet for days, but you’re still moving like it’s nothing.”

The newcomer shrugged, unfazed. “There’s no time to rest. Out here, you either keep moving, or you stop altogether.”

Soap tossed their bag onto the ground. “We get it, we get it. ‘Survival of the fittest.’ Well, I’ve got a question for you then, since you’re basically the expert what’s your favorite survival movie lass?”

The question hung in the air for a moment, and the rest of the group froze, glancing at each other. It wasn’t something they often asked. But after living day in and day out in a world of dead things and lost memories, some part of them needed to know what it was like to be human again to talk about something that wasn’t just survival.

The newcomer paused mid-step, clearly thrown by the question. “Movie? I don’t know what you mean,” they said, voice steady, but confused. “We didn’t have those where I grew up.”

Soap blinked, surprised by the response. “Wait, what? No movies? No action flicks, no comedies? Not even the classics?”

The newcomer shook their head. “We didn’t have time for that. We worked. We lived off the land. We didn’t need entertainment. We had each other.”

Gaz stepped forward, genuinely curious now. “You mean you’ve never seen anything on TV? Not even an old show, or a movie like The Godfather or something?”

“No,” the newcomer said simply. “We didn’t have TVs or phones. We had the land. The world outside was too loud, too much. We just lived quietly.”

The group stood in stunned silence. Soap was the first to speak, his voice a little softer than usual. “Man, that’s wild. Here we are, just trying to survive out here, and you were raised out there… living like it was the old days. Guess that’s why you’re so damn good at this whole survival thing, huh?”

The newcomer didn’t reply right away. Instead, they set down their pack and began unpacking some of the supplies they’d brought back. “You can call it that. You don’t need fancy things when you know how to make do with what’s in front of you.”

Gaz let out a low whistle. “So you’ve basically been living this whole time like we’re back in the 1800s? And you’re out here surviving like it’s nothing? You’re just… built for this, aren’t you?”

Soap grinned, tossing a can of beans in the air before catching it. “Guess you could say that. You’ve had a head start in a world that didn’t fall apart. We’re just catching up.”

Ghost, who had been quietly listening, raised an eyebrow. “What is it, exactly, that makes you so good at this? You’re not just surviving out here; you’re thriving. No panic, no stress. You know exactly what to do, all the time. How does that work?”

The newcomer paused, meeting Ghost’s steady gaze. “Because I was raised in a world where the land told you what to do. When everything else fell apart, I just kept doing what I knew. The world didn’t change for me the way it did for all of you. It’s still the same It’s just more dangerous now.”

The group fell into thoughtful silence as they set up camp. Soap was the first to speak again, his usual grin returning. “Alright, so we’ve got a survivor here who doesn’t need movies or a Wi-Fi connection to stay alive. But seriously, you’ve got to have some idea of what a classic film is.”

The newcomer shrugged, uninterested. “Classic? I don’t know what you mean.”

Gaz’s eyes widened, and a laugh broke from him. “Wait a minute, you don’t even know what a cell phone is? What did you do for fun—just… work?”

Soap smirked. “Probably spent their time finding the best way to build a barn or make butter.”

Gaz, still shocked, couldn’t let it go. “Amish? Are you Amish?”

The newcomer glanced over at him, their expression not changing, though there was a faint, almost amused glint in their eyes. “Yes. I was raised Amish. No phones, no TVs, no modern stuff. Just the land, the seasons, and the people around me.”

Gaz blinked, completely stunned. “Amish? Seriously? That’s… that’s wild! You mean to tell me you’ve survived this entire apocalypse with none of the modern things we rely on? No tech? No nothing?”

Soap burst out laughing, his voice filled with disbelief. “Are you telling me we’ve been following around the Amish version of Rambo this whole time?”

Gaz, still processing, added, “How did you not know about any of this? We’re out here dodging zombies, and you’re living like it’s just another day on the farm?”

The newcomer gave a small smile. “It’s just another day. And now, I’ve got to keep all of you alive.”

Ghost and Price, overhearing the conversation, exchanged amused looks. Ghost chuckled softly, crossing his arms. Price allowed a small, rare smile to curl on his lips. Soap and Gaz were both still reeling from the realization, but the fact that the newcomer had been a lifeline to all of them made the truth somehow less strange.

Soap slapped his knee, still laughing. “I swear, if we ever make it out of this, you have to teach me how to grow potatoes or something. I’m done with all these canned beans. Maybe I can finally learn what real food is.”

The newcomer gave a dry smile but said nothing. “We’ll see.”

Gaz, still laughing, saluted the newcomer. “Alright, I guess we owe our lives to Amish survival skills. Who knew?”

Soap raised a brow, clearly impressed. “I’m just waiting for the day you start milking cows or making some homemade cheese. Can’t wait for that lesson.”

Ghost and Price chuckled quietly, watching their teammates banter. For all the chaos in the world, moments like this where they could still laugh, still find humor and humanity in the madness felt like a small, precious victory. Even in a broken world, they were a family.

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Boredom had a way of making you do questionable things. Like signing up for a cooking class despite your well-documented history of culinary disasters. You had scorched eggs, burned pasta, and once managed to set toast on fire. If there was a way to ruin a dish, you had found it.

So, naturally, a cooking class seemed like a logical next step.

The only thing that stopped you from bolting right out of the class on the first day was the instructor himself, Kyle.

He was confident, charismatic, and, unfortunately for you, devastatingly attractive. That last part made focusing on anything remotely related to food prep significantly harder.

Your first lesson began with an introduction to knife skills, and you quickly realized that chopping onions was its own form of torture. Your hands fumbled, your slices were uneven, and at one point, you nearly lost a fingertip.

Kyle chuckled as he slid a cutting board in front of you. "Alright, let’s slow down before we end up in the emergency room, yeah? Hold the knife like this, firm grip, but relaxed." His hands covered yours, guiding you through the movement. "There you go. Now try again."

You tried to ignore the way his touch lingered just a little longer than necessary, focusing instead on not making a fool of yourself.

That resolve lasted about three minutes until you managed to send half a tomato flying across the room.

Kyle blinked, lips twitching in amusement. "Well, that’s one way to do it. Not exactly the right way, but you’ve got enthusiasm."

"Enthusiasm won’t stop me from burning the kitchen down," you muttered, shaking your head. "I’m hopeless."

"Nah," he grinned, leaning against the counter. "Just need the right teacher. And lucky for you, I happen to be the best."

The lessons continued over the next few weeks, each one filled with equal parts disaster and progress. You learned how to knead dough without it sticking to everything in sight, how to properly season a dish without making it taste like pure salt, and, most importantly, how to not set things on fire.

Every lesson was a battle between your growing skills and your natural inclination for chaos, but Kyle never lost patience. If anything, he seemed to enjoy watching you stumble through the process.

"Alright," he said one evening as you both hovered over a pan of sauce that miraculously hadn’t turned into charcoal. "Moment of truth. Taste test."

You hesitated, scooping a bit onto a spoon. Your track record with homemade meals wasn’t exactly great. But as soon as the flavors hit your tongue, your eyes widened. "Holy—this actually tastes good."

Kyle grinned. "Told ya. You’re getting the hang of it."

You turned to him, a slow smirk forming. "So, what you’re saying is… I’m a natural?"

He laughed, shaking his head. "Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You’re better, but let’s see if you survive the final test."

Your stomach dropped. "Final test?"

Kyle leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Cooking a meal all on your own. No help. Just you, the ingredients, and your questionable decision-making."

You groaned. "You’re trying to kill me."

"Nope, just makin’ sure all this hasn’t been for nothing. I’ve got faith in you."

And damn it, with the way he looked at you just then, soft, encouraging, like he knew you could do it, you almost believed it too.

Then he smirked. "And, since it’s your final test, I think it should be a special occasion."

You raised an eyebrow. "Special how?"

Kyle leaned against the counter, arms crossed, looking way too pleased with himself. "How about this you cook me dinner. At your place. Just us."

Your heart did a weird little flip. "Wait, is this part of the test, or are you asking me out?"

He chuckled, tilting his head. "Little bit of both."

You stared at him, trying to find the catch. "So, you want me to cook for you, knowing full well that my kitchen skills are questionable at best?"

Kyle shrugged. "I like a little danger. Keeps things interesting."

The teasing glint in his eye made your stomach do another flip. You exhaled, dramatically wiping your hands on your apron. "Alright, Kyle. You’re on. But if you die from food poisoning, that’s on you."

"I’ll take my chances."

The next evening, you found yourself pacing your kitchen, trying to remember everything Kyle had taught you. You had picked a simple dish, one you had actually managed to cook successfully under his watchful eye. But without him hovering nearby to save you from disaster, your nerves were getting the best of you.

When the knock came at your door, you took a deep breath and opened it to find Kyle standing there, dressed casually but somehow looking effortlessly good. He held up a bottle of wine with a smirk. "Figured we might need this."

You let him in, and he surveyed your kitchen with an amused glance. "So, what’s on the menu, Chef?"

"That… is a surprise," you said, nudging him toward the counter. "No interfering. You’re the guest tonight."

"Alright, alright," he laughed, holding up his hands in surrender. "I’ll just sit back and enjoy the show."

Despite a few near mishaps, the meal actually turned out well. You plated everything carefully and set the table, feeling ridiculously proud of yourself. Kyle took a bite and let out a satisfied hum. "Look at that. My star pupil actually pulled it off."

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in his gaze made your face heat up. "So, does this mean I passed?"

Kyle leaned in slightly, a slow smile spreading across his lips. "Oh, you definitely passed. But I think we might need a few more lessons. You know, just to be sure."

Your heart raced as you met his gaze, realizing that maybe, just maybe, this had never really been about cooking at all.