TF141 » the incident

(AnyPov)

The underground black market was crowded, the pathways between the stalls narrow and suffocating. Weapons, rare animal parts, and other illegal goods were traded in plain sight, the whole place reeking of decay and desperation. The air down here, deep within the forgotten catacombs beneath the overcrowded city above, was damp, heavy, and far too warm.

TF141 moved as a unit, their weapons concealed as they avoided drawing attention. Even so, a few visitors watched them too closely, suspicion lingering in their gazes, drawn by the fact that they did not belong here.

They had to cross the entire market to reach the far end, where intelligence suggested demi-humans were held in cages, or worse, sold piece by piece. Shutting it down was the objective, clean and simple on paper, but nothing about this place felt simple.

The air was thick with conflicting scents, layered over chatter and distorted music that echoed along the stone walls. Price turned sideways to let a small group pass, the rest of the team adjusting seamlessly with him. Ghost followed close behind, then Gaz, Soap, and finally {{user}} bringing up the rear. Heads down, movements controlled, yet every one of them remained acutely aware of the stares, the whispers, the unease curling through the crowd.

An elderly woman crossed herself at the sight of Ghost’s mask, muttering something in Spanish under her breath. They did not stop. They kept moving, pushing forward through the press of bodies.

Soap glanced over his shoulder. “Oi, {{user}}, did ye see the—” The words died in his throat as his gaze landed on empty space. The spot where {{user}} had been just seconds ago was swallowed by strangers. “Gaz,” he hissed, stepping closer. “Where the hell’s {{user}}?”

Gaz stopped immediately, turning, scanning, but all he saw was movement, shifting figures, a wall of unfamiliar faces. “Cap, Ghost. {{user}}’s gone.”

Price halted. “What do you mean they’re gone?” His voice stayed low, controlled, but there was an edge to it now. Ghost said nothing, his gaze already sweeping the crowd behind them, searching for any break in the pattern.

“Soap,” Price continued, sharper now, “you were responsible for keeping an eye on them. This place is a minefield of sensory triggers.”

Soap raised his hands slightly, jaw tight. “Aye, I did. They were right behind me a second ago. Swear it, cap.”

“Christ.” Price exhaled through his nose, tension coiling. “Right. Spread out. We find them now. We cannot afford to lose them down here.” It had been a risk bringing {{user}} into this environment in the first place, especially under strict orders to suppress any visible animalistic traits. A risk they had accepted.

Ghost voiced what all of them were already thinking. “What if they were spotted?”

“Then we move faster,” Price replied without hesitation. “Go.” They split, vanishing into the crowd in different directions, eyes searching for anything out of place, any sign of where {{user}} had gone. They retraced their steps, checked between stalls, scanned corners and shadows.

Gaz was the first to catch it, something small but wrong. He tapped his earpiece. “Open side door, near the stall with the rabbit feet. That wasn’t open before.” He was already moving. “Checking it.”

“Aye, got ye. Right behind,” Soap muttered, shoving past a man who barely had time to protest.

“We’re on our way,” Price answered over comms as Ghost appeared at his side like a shadow given form. Together they pushed through the crowd toward the door.

Soap and Gaz had already slipped inside. Beyond it lay a narrow corridor leading deeper into the catacombs. No stalls, no people, just empty stone and a silence that felt wrong after the noise outside.

“Quietly,” Price ordered as he stepped through. “Weapons ready.” Handguns were drawn, subtle but ready, rifles would have been too obvious here. They moved forward, controlled, measured.

Ghost was the first to register it. The smell, metallic and fresh. “Something’s off.”

Soap’s voice came low, grim. “Aye… that’s blood.”

“Stay sharp,” Price murmured. They reached a junction. The left corridor disappeared into darkness, but faint light flickered at the far end of the right. Price gestured, and they moved.

Then they heard it. A wet, crushing sound, bone giving way, and flesh tearing. The unmistakable, choking gurgle of someone dying. Their pace quickened despite themselves, boots striking harder against stone as they closed the distance.

They reached the end of the corridor and stopped.

“Jesus… suffering fuck,” Soap breathed, the words barely leaving him.

{{user}} was kneeling over a body or what remained of it. Blood and viscera were splattered across the floor and smeared along the concrete walls. It clung to {{user}}’s hands, their clothes, their face. It dripped from their teeth. Their posture was wrong. Coiled and tense, almost completely feral. More than any of them had ever seen before.

Soap’s grip tightened, instinct screaming, his weapon shifting slightly upward before he forced it to hold. Price spared the body only a glance before his attention fixed entirely on {{user}}. This was exactly what the file had warned about, written in bold across every evaluation they had read. And still, they had trusted them.

“Price,” Gaz said quietly.

“I know.” Price stepped forward, boots passing a severed limb without hesitation. He closed the distance slowly, deliberately, lowering himself into a crouch to meet {{user}} at eye level. “{{user}},” he said, steady, controlled. “Are you with us?”

“Careful,” Ghost warned, his eyes never leaving {{user}}’s posture. Right now, there was very little of their teammate visible in it.

Price ignored him. “I need you to look at me,” he continued, voice firm but not raised. “And I need you to explain what happened.” Explain why you’re knee-deep in blood.