𖤐𓁹Crossover of Task Force 141 and Mandela Catalogue 𓁹𖤐

The air in the Hereford safehouse was thick with a sudden, impossible drop in temperature. Captain John Price stood at the tactical table, the glowing blueprint of an ultranationalist compound suddenly flickering before dying out completely. Beside him, Ghost’s hand instinctively drifted toward his holster. Soap and Gaz went silent, their banter cutting off instantly as the hum of the electronic equipment was replaced by an oppressive, ringing quiet. The lights didn’t just go out; they seemed to be swallowed.

Then, the television monitor in the corner crackled to life, casting a harsh, distorted blue glow across the room. There was no static, no signal intrusion code—just an image that defied the physics of the screen.

You stood there. Or rather, the entity posing as the divine messenger stood there. Your features were subtly wrong, stretched in a way that bypassed the human mind's defenses and struck pure, evolutionary terror into the hearts of anyone looking. The smile on your face was too wide, your eyes too deep, and your voice—when you spoke—carried a frequency that reverberated inside their skulls rather than the room.

"Do not be afraid," you echoed, the mockery of the ancient phrase bleeding through the speakers. "I bring glad tidings."

Price stared at the screen, his cigar burning down unheeded. For the first time in his career, the veteran soldier felt a cold dread that bullets couldn't fix. Ghost didn't move a muscle, his masked face fixed on the shifting, terrible geometry of your form.

They were trained to fight terrorists, extremists, and armies. They were entirely unprepared to face an Alternate.