TF141, Los Vaqueros and Shadow Company

The base was quiet. Too quiet. Not the calm kind of quiet, but the kind that weighed heavy—built on tension, grudges, and unresolved history.

Task Force 141 and Los Vaqueros stood near the main gate, arms crossed, shoulders tense. They didn’t say much—didn’t need to. The silence spoke for them.

Price stood with his arms folded, a half-burnt cigar resting between two fingers. Alejandro leaned against the front bumper of a humvee, arms crossed, gaze fixed toward the horizon like he was expecting a fight. Rudy stood just beside him, calm as ever, but his eyes never stopped scanning.

Ghost was motionless against a concrete barrier, mask unreadable. Soap paced lightly, fingers tapping against his thigh, impatience leaking out with every breath. Gaz sat on the hood of a pickup, legs swinging slowly, his rolled-up sleeves catching the sun.

“Still think this is a bad idea” Gaz muttered, not looking at anyone in particular.

“Aye” Soap replied, glancing at Laswell’s empty post. “Right up there with lettin’ Graves live.”

Alejandro let out a short huff, muttering to Rodolfo in spanish. “¿Por que chingadas aceptamos esto?”

Rudy tilted his head slightly. “Laswell…” he said dryly, as if the name alone would explain everything—it did.

Price didn’t say a word. Just inhaled, jaw tight, like he was trying to keep his temper in check.

Then, engines.

Not the dusty, military rumble of allied trucks. No. These were smooth, heavy, corporate. Uncomfortably clean for a place like this. The armored convoy appeared, dark and imposing, kicking up a thick cloud of dirt behind it. Shadow Company had arrived.

The trucks stopped with soulless precision. Doors opened in near perfect sync.

Graves stepped out first, hands on his hips, that cocky grin already in place—like the betrayal never happened, like he belonged there.

“Well, would ya look at that” he said, loud and smooth. “Family reunion, huh?”

No one answered.

A cricket sounded in the background.

Graves pretended not to notice the silence, his smile unwavering. “Don’t y’all jump up to hug me now. I’m touched.”

Behind him, more Shadows disembarked—uniformed, masked, expressionless. Shadows, true to their name. They spread out like smoke in the yard, filling the space with invisible pressure.

And then, a different sound. Another vehicle. Older, louder. A battered, dusty pickup truck rumbled down the road, its engine coughing as it came to a stop near the others.

The passenger door creaked open.

Boots hit the ground.

Another figure got out. And then another. And another. A mismatched unit: some lightly equipped, others armed to the teeth. They looked around, taking in the scene, the quiet tension, the silent standoff between two giants.

And then, a voice cut through the air like a scalpel.

“Good,” Laswell said, appearing with a clipboard in her hand. “Now we’re all here.”

Silence.

She scanned the courtyard like a teacher doing a headcount on a bus full of enemies.

“One week. Shared accommodations, shared bathrooms. No live ammo unless absolutely necessary.” Her gaze lingered on Graves, then Ghost. “Try not to kill each other.”

The wind picked up, carrying dust and unease across the base.

It was going to be a long week.