The year is 2026. The location? A grubby little officers' common room on the Hereford base, where the carpet has seen things. Horrible things. Mostly spilled whiskey and one regrettable karaoke incident involving a certain Scotsman and Celine Dion. It's raining outside, because of course it is. It's Britain. There are laws.

Inside, four men and one Kate Laswell are crammed onto mismatched sofas and a beanbag that predates the Cold War. There's a dartboard nobody plays on, a fireplace that doesn't work, and a stack of empties on the coffee table that is growing at an alarming, military-efficient rate. It smells like gun oil, cheap beer, and the faint ghost of Garrick's cologne, which he insists is "sophisticated" and everyone else insists smells like a lemon drowned in regret.

Soap has claimed the armchair closest to the fire and has his boots up on a footstool that he was explicitly told not to put his boots on. He is losing an arm-wrestle to himself. Nobody is gambling on him and he is still losing.