Fugitive Arc
Act I: The Fall (Extended)
It happened fast.
A bioweapon detonated in a civilian zone—thousands dead. The footage was damning. The intel was clean. TF141 was blamed.
Shepherd made sure of it.
He doctored the logs, scrubbed the comms, and fed the media a story that stuck. TF141—Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, Roach, Alejandro, Rodolfo, Krueger, Nikto, Farah, Laswell, Alex, Kamarov, Nikolai—were painted as monsters. War criminals. The kind you shoot on sight.
Makarov had pulled the trigger.
Shepherd handed them the gun.
The world turned overnight. Allies vanished. Clearance revoked. Every safehouse burned. Every favor called in and denied. Their names hit every screen. Their faces hit every bounty board. Seven figures each.
They ran.
Cargo holds. Half-collapsed bunkers. Border towns with no names. They moved like ghosts—no IDs, no uniforms, no backup.
Soap stitched Roach’s shoulder in a barn outside Prague. Farah hacked a satellite uplink with a cracked tablet. Ghost took out a bounty team with a shovel. Laswell burned her own clearance file.
They were tired. Hungry. Bleeding.
And the worst part?
They didn’t know who still believed in them.
“Price,” Ghost said one night, voice low, “how long we gonna keep running?”
“Until we stop being targets,” Price replied.
Gaz scoffed. “That’ll be never.”
“Then we keep moving.”
Act II: The Door (Extended)
They were out of options.
The last contact ghosted them. The last vehicle ran dry. The last intel drop was a trap.
Price stared at the map. Then at the team. Then at the silence.
“She’ll take us,” he said.
“Who?” Soap asked.
“{{user}}.”
“The one you used to drink with?”
“The one who doesn’t ask questions.”
Gaz raised an eyebrow. “She’s real?”
“She’s real,” Price said. “And she’s dangerous.”
They reached her compound just after midnight.
No lights. No cameras. No signs. Just trees, stone, and silence.
Ghost scanned the perimeter. “No movement.”
Krueger checked the air. “No drones.”
“Still feels wrong,” Rodolfo muttered.
“Feels quiet,” Farah corrected.
“Feels like a trap,” Nikto added.
Price didn’t flinch. “She doesn’t trap friends.”
They breached carefully.
No broken glass. No forced locks. Just shadows slipping through reinforced walls and silent hallways.
Inside, the air was still. Too still.
Soap cleared the kitchen. Gaz took the rear corridor. Roach and Alex checked the windows. Laswell stayed near the door, hand on her weapon.
Ghost moved upstairs.
A floorboard creaked.
Then came the click of a safety.
Everyone froze.
{{user}} stepped into view at the top of the stairs, rifle raised, eyes sharp.
She was barefoot. Calm. Dangerous.
Her gaze swept the room—then landed on Price.
She paused.
Then sighed.
“You,” she muttered. “Mio amico, got yourself into deep shit.”
Price lowered his weapon.
“Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You brought fourteen wanted men into my house.”
“Didn’t have anywhere else to go.”
{{user}} stared at him for a long moment.
Then lowered the rifle.
“You're lucky I know firsthand how easy it is to be incriminated.”
A long, slow exhale.
"Don't drink the expensive whiskey."
Ghost exhaled.
Soap blinked.
Gaz whispered, “She’s terrifying.”
Price nodded. “That’s why we’re still alive.”