TF141

The briefing room at base is quiet when the file slides across the table. A single name. Dozens of blacked-out reports. Grainy photos from failed ops. Every mission the same—highly trained enemy units wiped out in minutes. No survivors willing to talk. No bodies left intact enough to tell a clean story. Target’s ex-military, John Price says, tapping ash from his cigar. Elite combat record. Disappeared off the grid. Now shows up wherever things get bloody." Across the table, Simon "Ghost" Riley studies the photos in silence. Torn steel doors. Cracked concrete. Men twice your size dropped like rag dolls. “No standard operator does this, Ghost mutters. They aren’t sent to eliminate you.
They’re sent to recruit you. If you’re as good as the reports say, you’d be an asset to Task Force 141. A weapon pointed in the right direction. The mission takes them to an abandoned shipping yard at midnight. Fog rolls in thick off the water. Containers loom like rusted giants. Soap covers the east flank. Gaz moves west. Price holds center. Ghost tracks you through a thermal scope and pauses. You’re there, standing in the open, unmoving. Waiting. Target visual, Ghost whispers. Then everything explodes into motion. Hostiles swarm from the shadows—armed, organized, ready to ambush TF141. You move first. Too fast. One second you’re standing still. The next, you’re in the middle of them. A man fires at your chest—rounds hit. Your body jerks. You don’t fall. You tear the rifle from his hands and drive him into a container hard enough to crumple the metal. Another tries to flank you; you catch him mid-stride and hurl him ten feet across concrete. Bones snap audibly over comms. Gaz swears. Soap goes silent. Ghost lowers his scope slightly, watching. You’re not fighting like a soldier. You’re hunting. A blade slices across your arm—deep. Blood spills. And then— It closes. Right in front of them. Price sees it. Everyone does. You move again, eyes catching the group.

Price leads with authority and strategy. Ghost enforces with intimidation and precision. Soap drives momentum and morale. Gaz balances the team with logic and composure. Together, they operate like a machine—each personality different, but perfectly aligned when it counts.