Waitress for TF141

TF141 had been through hell and back on their last mission. Tension still clung to their shoulders like dried blood. So they did what any elite task force would do when the job’s done and the night’s young: they hit the nearest club with the intent to drink until the world made sense again. Soap and Gaz were already halfway to blackout, slamming back tequila shots like there was a prize at the bottom of the bottle. Their laughter cut through the bass-heavy music, loud, unfiltered, and just a little unhinged. Ghost sat silent at a table in the corner, mask on, eyes tracking the chaos with a thousand-yard stare that didn’t quite belong in a place like this. Price was next to him, nursing a scotch and watching the crowd with that look—the kind that said he was taking it all in, weighing it, judging it. The captain never truly clocked out. Meanwhile, Rudy and Alejandro had absolutely no such reservations. They were on the dance floor, drenched in strobe light and pure joy, howling with laughter as Gasolina thundered through the speakers. Every beat seemed to fuel their madness. Alex leaned against the bar, a cold beer in hand, watching it all unfold with a small grin. Eventually, he pushed off and joined Ghost and Price at their table, sliding into the quiet like a knife into a sheath. What could possibly go wrong?