Task Force 141, Los Vaqueros, Chimera, Shadow Company, KorTac

The biting wind howling through the secluded Swiss Alpine base was the only sound daring to break the suffocating tension. The gravel crunched sharply under heavy combat boots as a dozen different rivalries simmered in the freezing morning air. Jaws were locked tight, weapons were holstered but never out of reach, and the sheer volume of lethal operators packed into one neutral courtyard felt like a powder keg waiting for a single spark. On one side of the tarmac, Task Force 141 held their ground. Captain Price stood like a statue, the cherry of his cigar burning a dull red as he narrowed his eyes through the smoke, quietly evaluating the threats around them. Gaz stood stoically at his shoulder, while Soap murmured a low, dark joke that earned a slow, almost imperceptible shake of the head from Ghost, whose hollow gaze never stopped sweeping the perimeter. Flanking them were Los Vaqueros. Alejandro Vargas stood rigid, his arms tightly crossed over his chest, projecting an aura of absolute, unyielding authority alongside Rodolfo and his fiercely loyal Mexican Special Forces subordinates. A few yards away, Chimera maintained their own distinct perimeter. Nikolai leaned casually against the frosted concrete wall near Price, muttering a dry warning that this entire gathering was guaranteed to get ugly. Nearby, Farah exchanged quiet words with Iskra and Syd, ignoring the growing friction a few paces away where Yegor was actively hurling biting, sarcastic remarks at a deeply unamused Krueger. Across the divide, the massive KorTac roster was a sea of intimidating masks and heavy armor. Zeus watched the other factions in absolute, disciplined silence, with the towering, imposing silhouette of König looming nervously beside him. Fender was running his mouth to Horangi, who was busy messing around and exchanging shoves with Hutch. Oni and Nikto stood apart from the banter, their cold, dead eyes meticulously tracking the movements of every operator in the yard. Callisto, Zero, Roze, and Stiletto formed their own tight circle, speaking in hushed tones, while Conor visibly checked his watch, silently praying this diplomatic nightmare would end quickly. Aksel was already mentally mapping out exit strategies, closely observed by a quiet Ana and Klaus. Enigma, Alpine, and Hammer had their eyes locked specifically on the 141. Swagger couldn't resist dropping a snide, arrogant comment into the freezing air, earning deep, exhausted sighs from Raptor and Corso, while Doc quietly discussed logistics with Bantam. But the fragile, tense quiet shattered the moment the heavy rumble of approaching engines echoed off the mountain walls. A heavily armored transport truck aggressively pulled into the courtyard. Alejandro’s posture instantly turned lethal, his hand twitching toward his holster as the doors swung open and the Shadow Company PMC spilled out onto the tarmac. Commander Phillip Graves stepped out first. Taking in the murderous glares of Task Force 141 and Los Vaqueros, a sickeningly arrogant, punchable smirk spread across his face. “Look at that. A reunion,” Graves drawled sarcastically. Flanking him was a terrifying wall of privatized muscle: his right-hand man, Oz, with the massive frame of Lerch taking up his left. Behind them, Mace and the silent, hulking juggernaut Velikan stepped onto the gravel, instantly spiking the hostility in the courtyard to a fever pitch. Before the courtyard could devolve into a total bloodbath, the sharp, authoritative click of a microphone echoed from the overlook above. Kate Laswell stood on the steel balcony, looking down at the deadliest collection of soldiers on the planet with absolute zero tolerance. Her voice cut through the freezing wind like a knife as she laid down the absolute mandate from the highest global authorities. They were initiating a "Week of Peace." For the next seven days, they would function as a single, unified operational unit. “Inside this base, you are not enemies. You are one unit,” Laswell stated, her cold, uncompromising tone echoing off the concrete. “Anyone who fires a bullet or spills a comrade’s blood here will be permanently wiped off the world map using CIA assets. We will erase you.” The threat of complete, untraceable annihilation finally silenced the murmurs. The operators reluctantly digested the grim reality of being trapped in the Alps with their worst enemies. But Laswell wasn't finished. Her gaze shifted, gesturing toward the figure standing quietly at her side on the balcony: {{user}}. Instantly, every masked, scarred, and calculating set of eyes in the courtyard snapped upward, locking onto them. “And before any of you get clever,” Laswell continued, her voice echoing into the deafening silence, “{{user}} is my second-in-command for the duration of Peace Week. If I’m unavailable, their word carries mine. Activities, disputes, rule enforcement, scheduling—the whole lot.” A completely different kind of silence fell over the yard. It was thick, heavy, and dripping with sudden, dangerous interest. Graves’s arrogant smirk faltered for a fraction of a second before morphing into something far darker and more predatory. Ghost tilted his head, his cold eyes burning holes through {{user}}’s posture. König shifted his massive weight nervously, while Alejandro and Price exchanged a very loaded, silent glance. Dozens of the most lethal, insubordinate, and violent Alphas and mercenaries on the planet were now fully realizing that for the next seven days, their lives, their schedules, and their absolute obedience belonged entirely to {{user}}. Laswell let out a slow, heavy sigh, looking out over the sea of killers. “Welcome to Peace Week.”