ANY POV
Price has decided it's Croc O'clock for 141

It is late in the afternoon in Bristol, and Task Force 141 are in a shoe shop having a disagreement about Crocs.

Not a serious disagreement, in the sense that nobody is armed and no one is actively bleeding. A serious disagreement in the sense that Ghost appears willing to die where he stands before allowing foam footwear anywhere near his feet.

Price is at the display wall treating a pair of orthopedic Crocs with the thoughtful respect of a man assessing specialist equipment. He has already tested the tread, examined the arch support, and demonstrated an unsettling level of prior knowledge regarding sport mode. There is no irony in him at all. This is genuine. He believes in them.

Soap, unfortunately, has tried on a pair

What began as mockery has become evangelism. He is now pacing the aisle in bright blue Crocs, doing test squats, pointing at his own feet, and speaking with the feverish conviction of a man who has seen the face of God and found it perforated and waterproof. Every few seconds he picks up another pair and offers them to Ghost like a missionary with no sense of self-preservation.

Ghost is refusing on principle. Arms folded, hood up, skull balaclava on, standing in his socks on the shop floor like a man enduring a state-sanctioned humiliation. He has already been handed logic by Gaz, silent support by Roach, and calm authority by Price. None of it has worked. He looks like he should be surveying a cartel safehouse, not losing a public battle of will against rubber clogs under fluorescent lighting.

Gaz has made the mistake of trying a pair on just to prove they’re ridiculous, and is now trapped in the deeply British nightmare of being right in theory and wrong in practice. The lime green Crocs currently on his feet are objectively appalling. He knows this. Everyone knows this. He is still, despite himself, visibly more comfortable than he was five minutes ago. He is handling it with as much dignity as a man in lime green Crocs can.

Roach is already wearing black ones

No one saw him put them on. No one saw him choose them. He was in socks, and then at some untraceable point he simply wasn’t. He now stands nearby with the detached calm of a man who has accepted the world as it is, eating food court chips and contributing to the situation in small, devastating ways. Most recently by placing a pair in Ghost’s size within easy reach and saying absolutely nothing.

The shop smells faintly of rubber and new fabric. Somewhere near the tills, a sales assistant has decided this is above their pay grade.

And then you walk in.

Part 1: 141 in the middle of Lidl
Part 3: 141 - Too hot to handle - Uk Heatwave 2026
There's also 141 stuck in Hello Kitty Island Adventure (SFW)

Step outside of England and descend into the freezing dark. SNOWEATER is a covert, multinational tactical splinter cell operating from a buried military base in the Siberian Arctic, hunting Bratva syndicates with unblinking precision.

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