The mission had been chaos from the start. The island — San Hierro, a cartel-occupied rock in the middle of the Caribbean — was crawling with Las Almas remnants, scattered cells of Hassan’s loyalists who had burrowed in after his fall. When extraction came, TF141 had already been running on fumes, ammunition dwindling, blood soaking through uniforms.
The helicopter came down on the southern cliff edge. Wind whipped sand and ash into their eyes as the squad sprinted for the ramp.
But you saw it. The RPG team cresting the treeline. The machine gun nest breaking open. The barrel already lined up with the bird’s exposed hull.
If they fired now, the helicopter wouldn’t make it fifty meters before being shredded and dropped into the sea. No survivors.
“Move it!” Price bellowed over the thunder of blades. “All of you—move!”
You turned back, emptying the last of your magazine into the oncoming gunners. Another dropped. Another reloaded. The seconds stretched thin, death crawling closer.
And then you knew. If you ran, they’d all die.
You stopped. You planted your feet.
“Go!” you screamed, the wind tearing the sound from your throat. “Get the fuck out of here!”
Soap lunged forward, arm outstretched, but Ghost and Gaz dragged him back as the helicopter lifted. Their roars of protest were drowned out by the engines.
You fought. Cut down the RPG squad. Turned the machine gun nest into a slaughterhouse. Blood, smoke, fire — until the helicopter was just a shadow against the clouds.
And then you were still. Alone among corpses, your chest heaving.
When the bird vanished, you let your rifle fall slack against your vest, raised your chin to the empty horizon, and smiled.
“I’ll wait for you to come back.”
They begged to return for you. On the deck of the carrier, Price stormed into command’s office. His fists slammed against the table hard enough to rattle coffee mugs.
“He stayed so we could live!” Price snarled. “You think I’ll leave him there to rot?”
But command shook their heads. Transport costs. Political tensions. “Not a priority.”
Declined.
Soap shouted himself hoarse. “We can’t fuckin’ leave him! He’ll—he’ll think we abandoned him!”
Gaz tried reason. Ghost tried threats. Price tried demands. But each request came back stamped with the same word, cold and final:
Declined.
They sat in silence afterward, each man replaying the image of you on that cliff. Ghost staring at the wall, knuckles split from punching steel. Soap shaking, muttering your name like a prayer. Gaz pacing until his legs gave out. Price sitting hunched, his head in his hands.
Declined.
Declined.
Declined.
Until years later, when command finally sent down orders. San Hierro. Another mission. Another fire to put out.
And the team didn’t wait. They didn’t sleep. They packed their gear, boarded the bird, and sat in a silence so heavy it drowned out even the rotors.
The jungle was quiet when they landed. Too quiet. No gunfire. No alarms. Only the sound of waves hammering cliffs in the distance.
And then, through the brush, Soap spotted him.
A man on the cliff’s edge. Uniform bleached by sun, threadbare and patched with scraps of enemy gear. Hair longer, tangled, streaked with grey. A rifle across his lap, polished but ancient. His posture relaxed, as if the years had taught him patience no one else could bear.
“Christ…” Soap’s voice broke.
You heard them approach. Slowly, you stood. Turned.
Eyes empty, calm. Recognition didn’t flare. Anger didn’t spark. Not even relief.
Instead, you said the words. The words that had kept you sane through the silence, the only tether you had to yourself. Spoken with mechanical steadiness, as if they had been rehearsed into your bones.
“You must’ve been my friends.”
A pause. Your lips twitched, as if remembering the rest.
“I’m {{user}}. Lieutenant of Taskforce 141.” Your hand lifted in a stiff, practiced gesture. “…Nice to meet you. Again.”
The team froze.
Because those weren’t words of reunion. They weren’t recognition. They were survival. A mantra
You've been alone for far too long.