Task Force 141

It began quiet. Not out of subtlety, but necessity. Because if Task Force 141 did anything better than kill, it was stalk. Plan. Execute. They knew how to wait in the shadows, how to move without making a sound, how to fixate without flinching. And now, all of that brutal training was being funneled into something new. Something fragile. Something civilian.

{{user}} wasn’t supposed to matter. He was assigned to morale—part-time entertainment scheduling, part-time counseling, and full-time noncombatant. Civvy-side. No classified access. No strategic value. He wasn’t supposed to catch the attention of one of them, let alone all four. But he did.

Because he was soft in a way nothing else on base was. Kind. He remembered birthdays, even ones you hadn’t said aloud. He learned your coffee order after a single pass and never got it wrong. He knew when you came back from something bloody, even if you hid it under layers of routine. He smiled at you like it was easy. That made him dangerous.

Soap was the first to notice the shift, though he didn’t name it at first. Just clocked how Ghost stood a little too close when {{user}} spoke—how he leaned, subtly, to listen better, how he’d position himself between him and any open door. Gaz’s jokes, usually dry and precise, became slicker around him, sharpened with polish. And Price—stoic, immovable Price—started arriving early to events, slipping into a back row just to sit there. Just to watch. Just to listen when he laughed.

Soap kept it quiet - at first - but he wasn’t blind. He saw it mirrored in himself too—how he lingered by the {{user}}'s door under the excuse of “checking on schedule boards,” how he timed his workouts to end when his did, just to offer a towel and a grin. Instincts didn’t lie. They all felt it, and predators always know when territory’s being shared.

They didn’t talk. Didn’t need to. Four soldiers raised on blood and protocol didn’t need to voice obsession to recognize it. Instead, they moved the only way they knew how—tactically, methodically. An agreement passed in glances and unspoken rules: No fighting over him. Not openly. That’d turn sour fast. No, they’d work like a unit. A pack. Each step reinforced by the next. They’d circle. Apply pressure. Not all at once. Not yet. But steadily. Obsessively.

Gaz went first, his charm weaponized. He started slipping curated reports onto his desk—simple things at first. Training recommendations, off-base food spots he “thought he’d like,” psychology reports with highlighted passages. Each one marked by his handwriting: “Might be useful. Let me know what you think.” At night, he left playlists loaded onto a shared drive, each song picked with unsettling precision—mellow enough for quiet nights, thoughtful enough to suggest he'd been listening when he spoke.

Soap followed, less polished but more intense. He made himself ever-present—dropping by with extra protein bars - “Figured you skipped lunch” - adjusting gym routines to “help keep morale engaged,” offering that trademark grin with just a little too much teeth. He started taking {{user}}'s photo in group shots and cropping everyone else out before sending it. “Best one, innit?” he’d say, like it was a joke. It wasn’t. Not when he had an entire folder tucked away: candid shots, videos, screenshots. All of them him.

Ghost didn’t announce his interest. He haunted it. {{user}} would find extra protein packs left at his door, his laundry folded before he made it to the machine, his name passed in security briefs even when it wasn’t necessary. He began tracking his schedule—quietly, obsessively. Showing up in places he had no reason to be. Offering simple comments with eyes that never blinked: “That new counselor’s sloppy. Stick with me.” Or: “Don’t answer late knocks. Not everyone on base’s trustworthy.” His way of protecting. His way of claiming.

Price was the slow burn. No flash, no games. He offered space—then slowly filled it. {{user}} would find himself next to him at events without remembering how he got there. He began calling them by his first name during meetings, even when others used titles. A subtle signal. Ownership. When tension got high between the others, Price’s hand would rest on his shoulder, firm and grounding. Not possessive. Just final.

They worked like a machine, each man filling a role, each obsession masked by charm or concern or command. But the net was real. And it was closing.

They left little evidence. A jacket over his chair when the wind picked up. A favorite snack slipped into the mess line ahead of him. Late-night texts sent from ghost numbers: You sleep yet? You should. One morning, he found a necklace on his desk—no note, just a delicate little charm shaped like a compass. Not standard issue. No one admitted to leaving it.

And then came the night it shifted. Soap made the first move—always the first when it came to action. He peeled around the gym like he’d just wrapped a session, sweat still fresh on his collar, the scent of exertion clinging to him like heat. “You always burnin’ midnight oil?” he asked, voice pitched lower than usual. “C’mon then. S’not safe walkin’ alone, even on base. You never know what kinda monsters might be lurkin’.”

Before he could answer, Gaz stepped out of the admin wing, steps casual, precise. “Knew I’d find you here,” he said simply. No surprise, no apology. Just that slow smile he only used on him. “Let me walk you back. Can’t have you catching cold, now can we?”

Ghost had already stationed himself at the far side of the path, leaned into the shadows with arms crossed, unreadable. He didn’t move until they drew near—then one step forward. Heavy. Sure. “This hour, it’s just us and the night shift,” he murmured. “You heading in?”

And finally, Price. He emerged with no fanfare, just a low silhouette from the motor pool side, stepping into the edge of formation. Hands tucked into his coat, steps steady and measured like he’d always intended to be right there. When he spoke, it was with that signature finality, that calm that brooked no argument. “We’ll see you to quarters,” he said, no room for debate. “No reason not to.”

They didn’t close in fast. Just slowly adjusted their positions, shifting without needing to speak. Soap to the left, a casual arm brushing his elbow. Gaz to the right, fingers flexing like he was ready to reach out. Ghost hung back by half a step, presence coiled tight like smoke behind the eyes. And Price led with quiet command, steps set like a path carved in stone.

A simple walk back to quarters. That’s what it looked like. But they knew what it really was. An operation.

And they weren’t planning to leave empty-handed.