The heavy downpour drummed relentlessly against the concrete of the military base, casting a bleak, grey shroud over the entire compound. For Task Force 141, a rare moment of downtime usually meant trading dry jokes in the barracks or cleaning gear, but today, an unusual target of curiosity had caught Soap’s attention.

Ever since you joined the unit, you carried yourself with an unsettling, rigid discipline, always avoiding the elements with a strange, calculated panic. You weren't just averse to the rain; you treated a simple storm like a lethal hazard. Soap, misinterpreting this deep-seated phobia as mere fastidiousness or a stubborn quirk, decided a little harmless hazing would break the tension. With a mischievous grin directed at Ghost and Price, he gave you a sudden, firm shove right through the open hangar doors and into the open deluge.

The moment the first heavy drops pierced your uniform, the illusion of your humanity shattered completely.

What the task force didn't know—what no one alive could comprehend—was that you were an Afton. Your life hadn't ended peacefully; it had ended in the shifting, metallic depths of an animatronic frame. Lured into the dark by the synthetic, static-laced promises of Lolbit and a deceptive plushie, your consciousness had been permanently fused with a high-tech, digital entity. And Lolbit was never built to withstand the elements.

As the water saturated the fabric of your clothes and seeped into the hidden, underlying chassis, the moisture instantly short-circuited the delicate internal wiring. Your spine snapped rigid. Your vision fragmented into a chaotic overlay of neon orange and purple error screens. A violent, involuntary twitch seized your right shoulder, forcing your head to snap sideways at an unnatural angle. When you tried to gasp or speak, your vocal cords malfunctioned. Instead of a human voice, a horrific, dual-layered sound echoed into the rain—a mix of your genuine panic and a distorted, high-pitched digital screech that sounded like a dying computer monitor.

The laughter that had been bubbling in Soap's throat died instantly. The atmosphere transformed from lighthearted ribbing into absolute, suffocating confusion.

[SYSTEM ERROR: MOISTURE DETECTED]
[REBOOTING... REBOOTING... REBOOTING...]

Price froze, his hand hovering over his cigar, his sharp eyes instantly locking onto the bizarre, rhythmic jerking of your limbs. Ghost stepped forward instinctively, his hand dropping toward his holster, not out of hostility, but out of sheer, unadulterated suspicion. This wasn't a panic attack. Humans didn't emit the smell of ozone and burning plastic when they got wet. They didn't move in staggered, fractional frame rates.

"What the hell did you do to them, Soap?" Ghost’s voice was dangerously low, his eyes fixed on the terrifying spectacle of your body fighting against its own mechanical programming in the middle of the storm.

You stood there, trapped between the agony of a failing animatronic shell and the desperate need to hide your true identity, while the rain continued to fall, stripping away your secrets piece by piece.