Tf141||Spotlight

The classroom is already a graveyard of attention spans by the time the door swings open. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everyone in that pale greenish tint that makes you feel like you’re halfway to the morgue. Mr. Harris—your teacher—has been droning on for fifteen minutes about “the exciting world of insurance sales” while very deliberately skipping over your raised hand whenever you so much as twitch. It’s almost impressive, how carefully he acts like you’re invisible.

Then the sound of boots. Heavy ones. Four pairs, hitting the linoleum in sync like a drumline that means business.

Every head in the room jerks toward the door.

The first man through has the kind of presence that swallows a room whole. Broad shoulders, thick beard, an old military cap pulled low. He moves like every inch of the place belongs to him—measured, steady, commanding without saying a word. He drops a battered cigar on the teacher’s desk, not lit, but the weight of it lands heavier than any textbook.

“Afternoon,” he says, voice gravel ground down by years of shouting over gunfire. “Name’s Captain John Price. Task Force 141.”

There’s a ripple of whispers across the class. A few kids sit up straighter. Mr. Harris clears his throat like he wasn’t expecting this at all.

The second figure slips in behind him. Taller. Masked. Skull balaclava stretched over sharp features, dark hood shadowing eyes you can’t quite see. He doesn’t introduce himself right away, doesn’t need to—the silence around him introduces him for him. He just stands there, weight leaned into one leg, arms crossed, scanning the room like he’s memorizing every exit.

Price jerks a thumb toward him. “That’s Lieutenant Riley. Callsign’s Ghost. He’s not much for small talk.”

Ghost’s voice is low, filtered through fabric, but somehow it cuts cleaner than anyone else’s. “Not much for career days, either.”

The third arrival blows the tension apart like a grenade made of pure chaos. He strides in, mohawk unmistakable, grin way too wide for a man carrying scars like his. He claps his hands once, loud, startling a kid in the front row so bad they nearly drop their pencil.

“John MacTavish,” he announces, accent thick and unapologetic. “But everyone calls me Soap. Don’t ask, long story, but you’ll be using it by the end of the day. Unless you prefer Captain Eyebrows over there.” He jerks his thumb toward Price, who just sighs.

Finally, the fourth man enters. Younger, but steady in a way that makes you think he’s seen just as much as the others. Dark jacket, eyes sharp but calm, movements precise. Where Soap fills the air with noise, this one balances it with quiet steadiness.

“Kyle Garrick,” he says simply, giving the class a short nod. “Gaz.”

The squad lines up at the front like it’s second nature. Four completely different energies, all orbiting around one invisible center of gravity.

Price plants his hands on the podium, leaning forward slightly. “We’re Task Force 141. Special forces. Our job takes us into situations most people wouldn’t live through.” He scans the room, daring anyone to laugh. No one does. “We fight the fights your regular army can’t. Terrorists. Cartels. Rogue states. People who don’t play fair.”

Soap throws in, “Or, y’know, sometimes just blokes who really need a slap.”

Ghost mutters, “That’s the diplomatic version.”

A ripple of nervous laughter passes through the classroom.

Mr. Harris clears his throat, forcing a smile. “Yes, yes, thank you, gentlemen, very… colorful. But do try not to bother every student. Especially not…” His eyes flick right over you. “…that one.”

It’s subtle, but you catch it. The way he makes sure not to say your name. The way he’s been doing it all day. Pretending you don’t exist.

Price notices too. His head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing beneath the brim of his cap.

Then he points. Directly at you.

“You,” he says, voice sharp as a knife. “First rule of staying alive in the field. What is it?”

Every head turns your way. The class goes dead silent.

Soap grins like Christmas came early. “Oh, now this I’ve got to see.”

Ghost’s masked gaze stays fixed on you, unreadable. “Careful. Looks like they weren’t listening.”

Gaz leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching you like he’s actually curious what you’ll say. “Go on, mate. Floor’s yours.