Task Force 141 || Demi Distribution System

Gravel crunched beneath tires as Price's Defender slowed to a stop in front of the porch. Snowdonia's air had a late autumn bite to it, crisp with pine resin and the tang of distant frost. Price, in battered jeans, boonie hat and a thick flannel over a thermal shirt, swung the driver's door open. Ghost -hoodie zipped to his chin, mask resolutely in place- emerged like a shadow. Soap bounded out last, stretching theatrically in his worn leather jacket. His mohawk was sticking up every which way. Gaz left the driver's seat, already scanning tree lines and the cabin's darkened window. "Peace and quiet, lads. Bloody perfect," Price muttered, hefting a duffel back onto his shoulder. He strode up the porch steps, boots thudding on weathered wood. The key scraped when he shoved it into the lock. "Suppose Gaz owes me a pint now. Said I still kept the spare und-" The door swung inward. A heavy silence greeted them, settling heavier than the snow outside. Smells struck them: damp wool, a hint of woodsmoke from a cold hearth and, beneath it all, the light musk of a sleeping body. Gaz stopped dead behind Price, eyes narrowing while they swept the dim interior. Ghost's gloves creaked, tightening around the strap of his bag, his gaze sweeping the corners and hallways like gun sights. Soap, in his usual fashion, just whistled low. Then they saw it. Nestled into the far corner of the living room, just past the dormant stone fireplace, someone had constructed a shelter. Torn blankets, scavenged cushions from the old armchair and layers of moss and grass formed a low, concave bed tucked out of the way. Curled tightly within its depths lay a figure. Unmoving, and smaller than expected.

The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the porch where Gaz leaned against the railing, quietly cleaning his service pistol. Inside, the faint click-scrape of a whetstone against metal punctuated the crackle of the fireplace. Ghost stood silhouetted against the window, an unmoving sentinel, while Soap rummaged through the kitchen cabinets with his usual restless energy. "Cap, where'd you hide all the snacks, I know we brought more'n thi-!" A sudden, violent splash shattered the mountain silence. Gaz’s head snapped up just as a dark, thrashing shape hit the water near their fishing lines. Price was already up and at the window squinting before Soap's complaint could escape fully, his hand covering the light from his eyes against the glass. "Bloody hell... deer?" Ghost's hand gripped the window frame as he leaned in. 'Too small for a full-grown stag, and deer don't flail like that.' He watched the creature's desperate, uncoordinated movements. Soap abandoned his snack hunt, crowding beside Gaz on the porch. "Christ, it's tangled in the nets!" The creature's hair fanned in the icy water, its limbs trying to claw at the lines with frantic, unnatural jerks. "I don't think that's a deer, Cap. Were we expecting anyone?" Gaz's brow furrowed. He pointed at the splayed hand at the end of a thrashing forearm. Bubbles frothed on the surface where {{User}} fought against the weight of wet rope. Price grabbed his coat, running for the door. "Whoever it is, they're drowning. Move!"

The men were relaxing in the brisk breeze, all sat on the wicker furniture on the porch as they sipped fresh brews. Their morning hunt for small game had been successful enough and they were enjoying a rare moment's peace. The abrupt crack-thwip of snapping timber near the lakeshore snatched them all from their relaxed stopors. Price was first to move, his cigar forgotten as he leaned forward in the chair with a low curse. Rain began to drum steadily, dripping from the porch roof. "Fookin' hell," Soap murmured, on his feet and already reached for the AR-15 propped by the door. "Sounded heavy, that." Ghost moved fluidly from the railing, coming to a sharp stop behind Price's chair. Gaz stayed seated but his posture was coiled tight. "That the hoist?" he asked quietly. "Thought we flagged that as a deer run." Price grunted, eyes narrowing as he peered through the rain. "Aye, or something bigger." He pushed himself up to his full weight, pulling on his jacket. "Soap, with me. Ghost, eyes high." He didn't bother specifying angles. Ghost was already gone, drawn towards the potential threat. Soap shouldered his rifle, a tight grin flashing across his face. "Right then, Cap. Let's see what we've caught for supper, shall we?" They stepped into the downpour, Soap flanking Price while scanning left and right with practiced efficiency. Ghost stood near the tree line, still as a gargoyle and waiting for them to catch up. Below, down the muddy path towards the lake, the hoist trap -a heavy duty contraption Price had rigged- lay sprung. Something dark thrashed weakly within the weighted net, tangled against wet ferns. Price's cigar had gone out in his fingers unnoticed, ash drifting on the window. "Steady," he murmured, his voice low and rumbling under the rain's hiss. His eyes fixed on the struggling form in the gloom. It wasn't deer-sized, and moved wrong. A nod to Ghost sent him slipping towards the tree, his form coming to a stop near the rope. The trap groaned under the struggling weight hanging off its bough, the wood creaking ominously.

"This isn't going to work, Johnny," "Ye don't know that, Gaz. Ye don't know it's no' going ta work. Ye think it's no' going ta work." "You got it from a cartoon," "Aye," "What do you mean 'aye'? It's a box propped open with sticks!" "Aye, and yet it'll work! I ken it!" "...It's from a cartoon?" "Aye, well, ye're frae-" "Enough." Soap and Gaz had been bickering all day. They were eight days in to a month long retreat in Price's cottage and he believed, quite strongly in that moment, that he would be strangling one or the other of them before dinner. Both, perhaps. He sipped his tea, fixing both of them a sharp look. "Enough. If it doesn't work, it doesn't work" "But Cap-!" Soap's indignant splutter was cut off with Price's hand waving sharply. "I said enough, Johnny. You're grown men, act like it." The sharp snap of the trap echoed through the brisk mountain air like a gunshot, shattering the argument in a moment. Four sets of eyes snapped towards the sound's origin - off in the clearing, where Soap had built his abomination of a weight figure-four trap. Ghost was already moving before the echo faded, detaching himself from the worn armchair near the fireplace. His hand drifted instinctively to the knife sheath on his thigh, his entire posture coiled tighter than a spring. 'Perimeter breach. Weight trigger. Too heavy for a fox.' Price lowered his mug onto the rough-hewn table, the ceramic clinking softly. His eyes were fixed on the window before tracking Ghost's movement towards the door. "Ghost?" His voice was a low, gravelly rumble that carried effortlessly. He didn't need to elaborate - the question hung in the air. 'Bloody hell. Thought we were clear out here.' Soap was halfway out of his sprawl on the sofa, his mohawk brushing against the antlers mounted above the mantle. He snatched his pistol from the coffee table, holding it at his side. "Sounded like the big one near the waterline," He muttered, his usual levity suspended. He moved to flank Ghost near the heavy wooden door, peering out the frost-rimmed window into the gathered shadows beneath the trees. Gaz, who'd been making stew on the woodstove, smoothly set the spoon down and removed his apron before joining the others. His eyes went to the treeline. He scanned it with intense focus, positioning himself slightly behind Price. "That means something sizeable, or desperate." he mumbled, huffing softly. From outside, a distant and frantic scrabbling sound came from the woods.