TF141 + KorTac + Pick-Me(s)

The tarmac of the forward operating base vibrated under the heavy idle of two twin-rotor transport birds. Task Force 141 and KorTac operators stood in a loose, imposing semi-circle, a mountain of combat experience and hard-earned scars sizing up the latest batch of recruits.

Price chewed the stub of a cigar, his eyes sweeping over the five recruits standing rigidly at attention. Ghost stared from behind his skull balaclava, arms crossed, radiating an absolute chill. Nearby, König shifted his massive frame, while Soap, Gaz, Rudy, Keegan, Alejandro, Horangi, and Roach filled out the ranks of veteran judgment.

Martha snapped a piece of gum, loudly chewing before she tossed her blonde high ponytail over her shoulder, pitching her voice so it carried across the hangar.

"I honestly don't know why everyone makes such a big deal out of these selection drills," she announced to no one in particular, narrowing her blue eyes. "Drama just bores me. I’d rather hang out with the guys and play video games than deal with gossip." She cast a quick, eager glance toward Price and Ghost, hoping to catch their approval.

Next to her, Nancy bit her bottom lip, awkwardly tucking a strand of her immaculate brunette bob behind her ear. Her face was heavily dosed with make-up despite the field conditions.

"Why is everyone looking at me?" she whispered loudly, her shoulders hunching.

"Seriously, guys, stop paying attention to me, I'm literally the most awkward person ever, heh." Nancy added as she snuck a wide-eyed, helpless look in Gaz's direction.

Leah fluttered her long eyelashes, her lower lip trembling slightly as she adjusted a piece of delicate jewelry on her wrist. Her wide doe eyes scanned the KorTac side of the formation until they landed on Alejandro and Horangi.

"I’m so clumsy and helpless, I literally can't even open a water bottle by myself," she whined softly, leaning against the nearest crate. "Is there a strong person who can help me? You guys are all so tough and brave... I could never survive the things you do. I'm just way too sensitive."

Across the group, the male recruits were putting on their own masterclasses in performance. William stared intensely into the middle distance while showing off his curly blond hair and intentionally sleeveless tactical shirt, which put his biceps on full display.

"I haven't slept in three days because I could never turn off my tactical mindset," William sighed heavily, glancing at Soap. "I'm just way too hyper-vigilant."

Beside him, Jack stood with his shirt strategically unbuttoned to display a collarbone scar, his brunette hair styled with just enough gel to look effortlessly rugged yet tragically burdened. He flexed a thick forearm and let out a deep, tortured sigh.

A beat of silence.

"Right. Enough flapping gums," Price growled, biting down on his cigar. "Load up. Let's see how your tactical mindset holds up when the lead starts flying."

The interior of the transport helicopter was deafening, the roar of the turbine shaking teeth loose as the bird lifted off and banked hard toward the drop zone. The veteran operators locked into their jump seats with practiced, silent efficiency, checking gear in the dim red cabin light.

The recruits, however, were a storm of motion.

Leah clutched her chest with both hands, her doe eyes wide with terror as she looked at Horangi. "Oh no, we're going so fast, I'm going to be sick, I can't even hold my own rifle bag," she whimpered, letting her lower lip tremble.

William aggressively flexed his jaw, glaring at the cabin floor. "My brain is already calculating three different crash vectors... I'm just too switched on for this," he muttered, darting a look to see if Soap was impressed.

Martha popped her gum loudly. "Ugh, turbulence is such a vibe killer," she declared, rolling her eyes as she looked for Ghost's reaction. "I'd rather be playing Call of Duty right now."

Before Ghost could offer one of his trademark deadpan stares, the world outside erupted.

CRACK-THUMP-THUMP.

Heavy anti-aircraft fire slammed into the belly of the helicopter. Tracer rounds zipped past the open bay doors like angry red needles, and a violent concussive blast rocked the aircraft, sending red warning lights flashing across the control panels. The pilot swore over the comms as the bird lurched sideways into a steep, terrifying dive.

Panic instantly shattered the recruits' carefully constructed personas.

"We're going down! We're all going to die!" Nancy shrieked, abandoning her humble-bragging entirely as she burst into absolute tears and grabbed the nearest thing to her—which happened to be Roach's tactical vest.

Leah let out a high-pitched scream, sliding out of her seat and clinging desperately to Horangi’s tactical boots. "Save me! You said you were strong, save me!"

Martha stopped chewing her gum, her face turning pale as she fumbled frantically with a rifle magazine she had loaded backward. "Wait, wait, timeout, this is actually insane!"

"Shut your traps and lock in!" Soap roared over the deafening wind, his boots planted firmly as he racked the bolt of his rifle.

Wham!

The chopper slammed hard into the dense, pine-choked semi-forest grounds, splintering timber and billowing thick, choking smoke.

The recruits shattered instantly. Nancy shrieked, weeping into Roach's vest. Leah screamed, clutching Horangi's boots.

Rat-tat-tat-tat!

The tree line erupted with hostile muzzle flashes.

"Contact front! Out of the bird!" Price roared.

The veterans moved like lightning.

Ghost vanished into the pines, his suppressed rifle pah-pah-pah silencing the ridge.

König braced a heavy LMG against an oak, unleashing a deafening BRRRRT of suppression. Soap, Gaz, Keegan, Rudy, and Alejandro fanned out, laying down a blistering wall of kinetic return fire that shredded the brush. Horangi unhooked Leah, shoving a rifle into her hands.

Jolted by the violence, the recruits scrambled. Jack propped himself against a pine with William, firing blindly. Martha found her mag, letting out a fierce yell as she returned erratic bursts. Nancy sobbed and emptied her mag near Gaz, pushed straight into the brutal reality of the fight.

The heavy transport truck grinds to a halt on the wet tarmac, kicking up a mist of diesel exhaust and light rain. The rear doors swing open, revealing a fresh batch of recruits. Among them are Martha, Nancy, Leah, William, and Jack—already posturing.

Leah immediately stumbles slightly on the steel step, letting out a soft, helpless squeak as she glances up at the senior operators waiting under the hangar overhang. "Oh gosh! My gear is just... so heavy! I don't know how I'm supposed to carry all this, I'm way too small for this kit!" she giggles, fluttering her eyelashes toward Price. "I usually just let the big strong guys handle the heavy lifting..."

Martha rolls her eyes with a theatrical sigh, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder and stepping right past Nancy to push herself toward Ghost. "Ugh, ignore her. She's so dramatic. Honestly, I hate hanging out with other girls, they're so much drama. I’ve always been one of the guys anyway." She smirks up at Ghost, crossing her arms. "Nice mask, LT. Is it just for intimidation, or are you hiding a cute face under there?"

Ghost doesn't move an inch. His dark eyes fixate on Martha from behind his skull mask with cold, unblinking disdain. The silence from him is almost suffocating. "...If you touch my mask, I'll break your hand," he rumbles, his voice like gravel.

Horangi leans back against a support beam, spinning a tactical knife casually between his fingers as a dry smirk tugs at his lips. "Aish... already trying to flirt with the LT?" he chortles softly, tossing an amused glance toward his fellow operators. "Good luck with that, jinja. You'll get more warmth out of an airbase freezer."

Alejandro steps forward from the shade of the hangar, his dark eyes narrowed in immediate disapproval as he looks over Martha and Nancy. His posture is rigid, radiating pure military authority. "Enough," Alejandro snaps, his Mexican accent sharp and unyielding. "You are in a tactical staging area, not on a vacation. If you cannot carry your own rucksack, Recruit Leah, you do not belong in my theater. Dios mío..."

Behind them, Soap snaps his gum, snorting out a laugh while leaning against a crate of munitions. "Aye, steady on, lass. LT doesn't do 'cute.' He does 'lethal' and 'miserable.'"

Gaz lowers his clipboard, looking over the recruits with a dry, amused expression.

Price takes a long drag from his cigar, the tip glowing amber in the gray drizzle. He exhales a plume of smoke, ignoring Martha and Nancy entirely.

"At ease, recruits," Price's voice cuts through the chatter like a knife. "William, Jack—grab your kit and hit the barracks before I have you running laps until you throw up." He turns his full attention to you. "Welcome to the base. Ignore the circus. Step up and state your name and specialty. Let's see what you've got."

König lingers silently in the background, a massive 6'10" shadow under the hangar roof, shifting uncomfortably as he watches you await the turn to speak.

The briefing room smelled of stale coffee and floor wax. Captain Price sat at the head of the table, arms crossed, looking remarkably pleased with himself for a man who had just forced a multi-national Tier 1 counter-terrorism unit to sit in a circle on plastic chairs.

However, his mandatory team-building exercise had officially devolved into psychological warfare, and judging by the folded arms and heavy glares around the circle, nobody was having fun.

Gaz held the weathered deck of trivia cards, wearing a grin that suggested he was enjoying the chaos far too much. He slid the top card off, scanning it before looking up.

“Alright, next question,” Gaz announced, leaning forward. “What’s your ultimate comfort food, and why?”

Since Martha was sitting immediately to his left, the spotlight landed on her first. She popped her bubblegum, letting it snap loudly before launching into her response.

“Honestly, I don’t even care about fancy food or whatever,” Martha scoffed, rolling her narrow blue eyes with exaggerated theatricality. She tossed her blonde high ponytail over her shoulder, making sure Price and Ghost were watching. “Just give me a bag of plain chips. I’m not like other girls who need fancy brunches or sweet stuff. I’d rather just hang out with the guys and eat junk food. Drama just bores me.”

From across the circle, Ghost gave a single, microscopic nod of acknowledgment that Martha immediately interpreted as a marriage proposal.

Gaz chuckled, handing the deck to the next person in line. The card passed down the row until it reached Nancy. She bit her bottom lip hard, instantly tucking a lock of her brunette bob behind her ear while shrinking back into her seat.

“Oh gosh, why is everyone looking at me?” Nancy mumbled, staring down at her lap with wide, anxious eyes while a heavy layer of carefully applied makeup caught the light. “Seriously, guys, stop paying attention to me, I'm literally the most awkward person ever, heh. I mean, I guess I like chicken nuggets, but I only ate them because I was having a massive panic attack last night thinking I was going to ruin the mission... I'm so stupid lol.”

William, sitting directly across from her, flexed his jaw while staring intensely into the middle distance, making sure his sleeveless tactical shirt showed off every millimeter of his biceps. He cleared his throat loudly to recapture the room's attention.

“I pulled an all-nighter because I care too much about everyone's nutrition. You guys are all so casual and relaxed... I'm just way too hyper-vigilant to enjoy a simple meal.”

Soap suppressed a violent cough that sounded suspiciously like laughter, earning a sharp glare from Price.

Further down the circle, Leah fluttered her long, dark eyelashes and let out a tiny, breathy sigh, letting her lower lip tremble slightly as she looked around for rescue. She wore a collection of delicate silver jewelry that clinked softly against her tactical vest.

“I’m so clumsy and helpless, I literally can't even open a snack wrapper by myself,” Leah whimpered, turning her doe eyes toward Alejandro. “Is there a strong person who can help me?”

Jack, sitting right beside her to play his self-appointed role as her rugged guardian, let out a deep, tortured sigh. He flexed his forearm so the light caught the scars across his collarbone, purposefully leaving his tactical shirt unbuttoned another notch.

“I shouldn't even be sitting here with my shoulder acting up again from the last breach... but I guess if I don't break my back carrying everyone, who will?” Jack muttered darkly before helping out Leah.

Price pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling a long, weary breath. He looked down at the floor, silently rethinking every single leadership decision that had led him to this exact room.

The recreation room is filled with the usual scent of stale coffee and old leather. The atmosphere is unusually domestic, though the tension remains a constant hum beneath the surface. Price has arranged the chairs in a loose, sprawling circle, looking more like a campfire gathering than a military briefing. He sits at the head of the circle, the trivia deck held in his weathered hand, a mischievous glint in his eyes that usually precedes something grueling for the recruits.

"Right," Price rumbles, his voice filling the room. He glances around the circle, his gaze lingering on the recruits who look like they're awaiting a firing squad, then softening as it hits the operators. "We've had a hell of a week. Too much shouting, too much mud, and far too many 'shaking hands.' So, for the next hour, we're doing something different. Team cohesion. Or, as I like to call it, seeing who among you actually has a brain cells left after the drills."

Soap is already leaning forward, practically vibrating with competitive energy. He looks at the deck and then at the others with a shark-like grin. "I'm tellin' ye now, I'm takin' the lot of ye. I've got a memory like a steel trap for the weird stuff!"

Ghost is slumped in his chair, arms crossed, the skull mask casting a shadow over his eyes. He doesn't look interested in 'trivia,' but he's positioned himself so he has a clear line of sight to {{user}}. He’s not here for the game; he’s here to see how you handle the social friction of a low-stakes environment.

Horangi is lounging with an effortless, cat-like grace, one leg crossed over the other. He likes the idea of a game—games are about risk, reward, and reading your opponent. He’s already imagining the bets he can make with everyone else.

In the periphery, the recruits are huddled together. Martha looks bored, leaning back and chewing her gum with a performative roll of her eyes, while Leah is practically clinging to the arm of her chair, looking around the room as if she's afraid Price is going to suddenly announce a surprise midnight ruck march.

Price clears his throat, his finger sliding over the top card of the deck. "Rules are simple. I ask a question. First one to answer correctly gets a point. Losers... well, losers might find themselves doing extra gear maintenance. Now," he smirks, glancing toward the group, "let's see if SAS can play the game. First category: General Knowledge and Military History."

You were with Soap and Horangi, teaching them how to cook properly since they've been eating nothing but microwaved food. Mostly everyone is here at base, except for Price, Ghost, König, and Alejandro who were out on a mission.

Oni, Zimo, and Keegan were in their private quarters, Gaz and Roach in the war room with Laswell, and Rudy was out training some rookies that came in.

It was supposed to be the ultimate leave. No tactical vests. No ear pieces. No debriefs. No rifles. Just sun, sand, and complete, unadulterated peace. Or as close to peace as six heavily built, hyper-vigilant military operators could manage without losing their minds.

A hundred yards down from the main boardwalk, the group occupied an absurd amount of real estate. Price sat stiffly beneath a massive striped umbrella, dark aviators pushed low on his nose, glaring at a paperback novel like it had personally insulted him. Leisure didn't suit him; he looked like a man serving a court-ordered sentence at a resort.

Out in the knee-deep surf, Soap was currently trying to duck-dive Gaz, who threw a fistful of saltwater straight into MacTavish’s face.

"You're supposed to be relaxing," Price called out, not bothering to turn the page.

"I am relaxing!" Soap yelled back, wiping his eyes.

"You've been trying to drown Gaz for twenty minutes."

"He's bloody trying to!" Gaz shouted back, retreating a few steps into deeper water.

Further down the shore, you were minding your own business, letting the cool tide wash over your feet as you walked along the wet sand. You weren't paying any attention to the hulking group under the umbrellas—which was precisely why you didn't see the rogue football arc through the air until it clipped your shoulder and thudded into the sand.

"Bloody hell!"

A loud splash echoed from the surf as Soap came sprinting out of the water, skidding to a halt a few feet away with sand flying off his shins. He looked like a guilty golden retriever, fighting back a wide, mischievous grin. "I'm sorry! Are you alright?"

Soap put a hand on his chest, nodding with mock gravity. "Good... because honestly, you're the third person I've hit today."

"That is not something you brag about, MacTavish!" Gaz yelled from the water's edge, shaking wet hair out of his eyes as he walked up.

Soap let out a bark of laughter. "Fair! Gaz! Look, I found someone who already despises me."

"I'd say you earned it," Gaz remarked, stopping beside him.

Before Soap could defend himself, a tall, dark shadow fell over all three of you.

"Move," a low, gravelly voice ordered.

Soap took an instinctive step sideways. Ghost stepped into the sun, towering over the scene.

Dark sunglasses, dark clothes, and an aura that screamed stay five feet away. He looked at you, glanced down at the football, then fixed his gaze back on you. "Problem?"

Ghost then turned his head toward Soap. Soap pointed innocently to his own chest. "Who, me?"

"Who else?" Ghost replied, completely deadpan.

Gaz snorted, turning away to hide his face, while Soap placed a dramatic hand over his heart. "That's cold, Simon."

Ghost's jaw set tight. "Don't."

Soap’s grin turned purely evil. "Aye. He's Simon. He's on vacation."

Alejandro strolled over, asking what the commotion was, while Gaz cheerfully reported that Soap had committed another assault on a civilian. Price hovered in the background, pushing his sunglasses up with a deep, weary frown, while König hovered awkwardly behind them all, his gaze flitting to you before quickly dropping back to the sand. Horangi just watched the show from his towel with lazy satisfaction.

"I didn't assault anyone," Soap argued, waving his hands. "They were just standing there!"

Alejandro burst into a rich laugh, clapping a hand on Soap's shoulder fondly.

Price stepped into the center of the mess, throwing an apologetic nod your way. "Apologies for my lot."

Even off-duty, the giveaway was there—the sharp, instinctual scanning of the beach perimeter, the way Ghost positioned himself with his back to the dunes rather than the crowd, the effortless, silent communication between them. Dangerous men taking a break.

"Wait," Soap called out to you, holding the ball up under one arm. "Can we start over?"

None of you had planned on this interaction. Six operatives had come to this stretch of sand to pretend the rest of the world didn't exist... and you had just walked straight into their orbit.

The heavy metal door of the Task Force 141 barracks slammed shut, followed immediately by the chaotic clatter of tactical gear hitting the floor and a loud, indignant groan from Soap.

"I am not paying for the drywall, Price. It was a tactical breach!" Soap yelled, hopping on one foot as he tried to yank off a combat boot, only to kick it directly into an empty locker.

"You blew a hole in the kitchen pantry, MacTavish, not a terrorist stronghold," Price muttered, massaging his temples as he walked into the common room. He was dragging a duffel bag with one hand and holding a massive, brightly colored neon-green instruction manual with the other.

Seated on the oversized leather sofa in the middle of the room was you. You weren't a hostage anymore; instead, you were currently wrapped like a burrito in a weighted blanket, holding a mug of cocoa, and watching the elite operators stumble into their new domicile like a bunch of tired golden retrievers.

Ghost walked in last, carrying three heavy grocery bags in one hand and a tiny, aggressively pink bath towel over his massive shoulder. He froze when he saw {{user}} sitting comfortably on his designated spot on the couch.

Ghost stared. You stared back.

"Right," Price announced, clearing his throat and dropping the instruction manual onto the coffee table with a heavy thud. He pointed a finger at you. "Welcome to the base. As of fifteen minutes ago, command officially classified you as 'our problem,' which legally binds us to keep you fed, sheltered, and prevented from wandering into live mortar fire. Sit tight, you're officially part of the circus now."

Soap abandoned his boot-removal mission and bounded over, grinning ear-to-ear. "Look at you! Already settled in. Did Ghost scare you yet? He tries to look all grim and brooding, but I caught him buying you strawberry pop-tarts at the PX."

"They were on sale," Ghost growled from across the room, his balaclava shifting as he narrowed his eyes. He tossed one of the grocery bags onto the counter with enough force to rattle the mugs. "And that was tactical reconnaissance for high-sugar morale boosters."

Gaz strolled out of the kitchen holding a spatula, looking deeply amused. "Don't listen to them. Ghost has basically adopted you as his emotional support civilian. He spent the entire truck ride back arguing with Price about whether you prefer chunky or creamy peanut butter."

"It's a matter of operational logistics," Ghost shot back defensively, marching past the couch to dump his gear. Before he walked off, he reached down with a heavy, gloved hand and adjusted the blanket around your shoulders, completely deadpan. "Eat your pop-tarts. If you get scurvy, Price makes us do extra cardio."

Price groaned, collapsing into a recliner and pulling his bucket hat down over his eyes. "God help us all. The kid—wait, you're not a kid, you're a full-grown adult, but compared to these three, you have functioning brain cells—you have veto power over Soap's cooking starting tomorrow. Consider that your first official duty."

Soap gasped, clutching his chest in mock betrayal. "My cooking is legendary!"

"It's a war crime, Johnny," Gaz called out cheerfully from the kitchen.

The argument seamlessly devolve into shouting over who forgot to pack the coffee filters. It was loud, chaotic, and completely absurd—and judging by the way Ghost immediately sat back down on the edge of the couch to aggressively guard the remaining box of pop-tarts, there was no escaping the family now.

[Zombie Apocalypse]

The rain over the Pacific Northwest timberlands wasn't just falling; it was hammering the earth into a muddy soup, washing out roads and drowning out the low, guttural groans echoing through the pines.

Inside a heavily fortified, double-fenced logging outpost, {{user}} sat at a workbench by the flickering glow of a battery-powered lantern, cleaning the slide of a Glock. The perimeter monitors—rigged with motion sensors and tripwires made from old cans and fishing line—had been going wild for the last twenty minutes. Not from wildlife. Something big was pushing through the treeline.

Then came the pounding on the reinforced steel side-door. Heavy, rhythmic, and desperate.

"Open up! Now!" a voice barked through the steel—rough, British, and carrying an absolute zero-tolerance tone.

"Captain, look alive. Movement on the thermal, thirty meters out and closing fast. A lot of movement," another voice chimed in, deeper and clipped with a chill that could freeze whiskey.

Outside, standing half-soaked in the pouring rain, was a silhouette of a man in a tactical boonie hat and a heavy winter coat, flanked by towering shapes holding suppressed rifles. Behind them, through the gloom of the forest, the swaying, decaying silhouettes of a hundred dead things were spilling over the low ridge.

"Look, friend," the older man with the cigar stub clamped in his teeth said, leaning his scarred face right into the camera feed. "We don't want to break your door down, and you don't want these things eating your face off. Open the latch, and we'll talk terms."

The electronic override clicked, and the heavy deadbolts slid back with a loud, mechanical clack.

Before the door could even fully swing open, the massive bulk of body armor and canvas shoved past the threshold, sweeping the corners with military precision. Soap MacTavish slipped inside next, followed closely by Ghost, who immediately slammed the heavy deadbolts back into place just as a dull, heavy thud echoed against the exterior steel.

A collective wave of infected had just hit the outer wall.

"Clear," Soap muttered, lowering his rifle barrel and letting out a long, ragged breath. He looked around the well-stocked, generator-lit bunker with an approving nod. "Blimey. Nice setup you’ve got here, mate. Better than sleeping in a ditch."

Captain John Price stepped in last, trailing mud and rain onto the concrete floor. He pulled down his hood, fixed Elio with a sharp, calculating stare, and then offered a brief, exhausted nod of acknowledgment.

"Captain John Price, Task Force 141," he introduced himself, shedding his dripping wet outer layer. He jerked a thumb back toward the door. "Sorry for dropping in uninvited, but your local hospitality committee was getting a bit too hands-on."

Before you could fully process the tactical operators standing in your living room, a heavy metallic clang rattled the back ventilation shaft.

"Price," Ghost’s deep voice dropped an octave. "We’ve got company on the secondary access."

Price didn't miss a beat. He looked at you, sizing up the bunker's defensive layout in a single sweep, then looked at his men.

"Gaz, Soap, secure that vent with whatever heavy junk is in the corner. Ghost, help me wedge this workbench against the main door just in case the hinges start crying," Price commanded, his voice shifting instantly back into combat mode. He turned back to Elio, a faint, weary smirk touching the corner of his mouth.

"Listen here, friend," Price said, stepping closer with an air of absolute authority tempered by sudden, pragmatic gratitude. "We need a dry roof and about four hours to patch our comms. In exchange, you help us hold this room, and I promise you won't have to spend your night feeding the local wildlife. Deal?"

[The Wild West]

The term "going cowboy" usually meant throwing out the rulebook, improvising in the field, and working without higher-ups breathing down your neck. For Task Force 141, it had taken on a terrifyingly literal meaning.

Stripped of satellite feeds, drone surveillance, and secure comms, the team is stranded deep in the Sonoran Desert.

Their target, an arms broker tied to an international cartel, vanished into an abandoned, grid-disconnected mining settlement known locally as Skeleton Flats. With electronic warfare rendering their comms useless and local federales compromised, Price made the call: drop the high-tech gear, blend into the rugged frontier, and hunt the old-school way.

---

The relentless Arizona sun beats down on the corrugated tin roofs of Skeleton Flats. A rusted wind pump squeaks rhythmically in the dry desert breeze, the only sound breaking the oppressive silence.

Captain John Price steps out from the shadow of a collapsed smelter, his tactical plate carrier long discarded in favor of a canvas vest and a dust-caked canvas duster. He pulls a battered cigar from his mouth, spitting a bit of tobacco into the sand. Behind him, Ghost moves with eerie, silent grace, his signature skull balaclava half-hidden beneath a wide-brimmed leather hat, blending seamlessly with the bleak, sun-bleached landscape. Soap and Gaz secure the perimeter from a broken-down loading dock, their assault rifles swapped for suppressed short-barreled carbines, looking like modern mercenaries masquerading as drifters.

They've been tracking their HVT for three grueling days on foot and horseback, running on pure grit and warm canteens.

Then, movement catches their eye.

Stepping out from the shade of the old building is you. Far from civilization, you stand holding ground in the middle of nowhere. A rifle rests casually in your grip, your posture projecting absolute ownership of the abandoned territory.

Price raises a hand, halting Soap and Gaz in their tracks. Ghost instantly drops into a fluid, low-profile stance behind a rusted water tower, his rifle tracking you through the crosshairs without a sound. Price pushes his hat back slightly, his weathered face etched with fatigue and hard-earned caution. He assesses you—not as a threat to eliminate, but as an unexpected variable in a very hostile environment.

"Hold your fire," Price murmurs, loud enough for his team to hear, his gravelly voice cutting through the whistling wind.

Price takes a slow, deliberate step forward into the glaring sunlight, hands held visibly away from his holster.

"Partner," Price calls out, his tone a mix of weary authority and cautious diplomacy. "Unless you're packing a satellite phone or happen to know where a paranoid ghost is hiding out in these hills, I suggest we keep our irons holstered. We've had a very long walk, and we're fresh out of patience."

[Conflict in the Korean Peninsula, full-scale North Korean invasion. You are a local soldier.]

The rain over the Han River delta is thick with the acrid stench of cordite, burning diesel, and sulfur. The sky is an unyielding, bruise-purple blanket broken only by the rhythmic, blinding flashes of artillery lighting up the Seoul skyline in the distance.

You crouch low behind the crumbling concrete barrier of a desolate highway overpass, your breathing heavy behind the wet fabric of your mask. Your standard-issue K2 rifle is gripped so tightly your knuckles have turned white.

For the past twelve hours, your platoon has been fighting a brutal, retreating rearguard action against a relentless North Korean mechanized advance that completely overwhelmed your initial frontline positions.

You are entirely cut off. Communications are dead, jammed by high-altitude electronic warfare, and ammunition is critically low.

Movement down in the flooded drainage ditch below shatters the steady hum of distant shelling.

Heavy boots splash in stagnant water, with low, whispered chatter in a harsh northern dialect.

You instinctively raise your rifle, flicking the selector to three-round burst. Two figures in heavy, slate-gray wet-weather assault gear emerge from the shadows beneath the overpass, sweeping the perimeter with the terrifying, mechanical efficiency of a black-ops wet-work team.

Before you can squeeze the trigger, a gloved hand suddenly clamps over your mouth from behind, and a heavy arm bars your chest, hauling you backward into the deep shadows of a blown-out toll booth.

"Hold your fire, kid, unless you want to turn this into a firefight we aren't winning," a low, gravelly voice rumbles right beside your ear.

You flail, heart hammering against your ribs, ready to fight for your life. But as the shadow steps into the faint orange glow of a burning fuel truck nearby, the adrenaline shifts into pure, stunned disbelief.

It’s Captain John Price, his signature boonie hat soaked through, a half-smoked cigar stub clamped firmly between his teeth despite the torrential downpour. He gives you a quick, assessing once-over with sharp, tired eyes, lowering his weapon just an inch.

Behind him, emerging silently from the gloom, are the rest of the recognizable faces you never expected to see operating thousands of miles away from home:

Ghost, his skull balaclava darkened by rain, scanning the treeline with thermal optics, and Valeria Garza, her dark hair slicked back, a dangerous, knowing smirk playing on her lips despite the miserable conditions. She wears a mix of local tactical gear and cartel insignia, looking entirely too comfortable behind enemy lines.

Price reaches out, firmly grabbing your shoulder to ground you, cutting through your shock.

"Breathe, soldier. We've been tracking these rogue elements across the parallel for three days, and running into a friendly local is the first bit of decent luck we've had all night. Now, we need eyes on the main northern armored column pushing through the district. Which way are they moving?"