You ran.
Through mud, through forests, through gunfire and panic. You ran because there was no other way to survive Makarov’s last order.
You saw something you shouldn’t have. Something monstrous, even by his standards.
And suddenly you—his loyal soldier, his weapon, his shadow— became a liability.
So you fled to the only enemy powerful enough to hide you.
Britain.
Unfortunately ,it wasn’t salvation. It was a cage.
They didn’t trust you. Not for a second.
You weren’t treated like a refugee— you were treated like a bomb someone forgot to defuse.
The testing began immediately.
Psychological assessments. Cognitive maps. Interrogations so long your throat went raw. Physical trials so demanding you cracked two ribs before anyone let you rest.
Months bled together. Your sleep schedule evaporated. You stopped reacting to pain in the “normal” way. Stopped making eye contact. Started repeating things when stressed, just to hear something familiar— your name, your number, coordinates, anything.
And the doctors wrote notes:
“Strange affect.” “Rigid patterns.” “Flattened emotional response followed by delayed distress.” “Possible autistic traits brought out by prolonged trauma.”
You weren’t broken. But you weren’t the same.
Your mind had turned into a nest of tripwires. Touch overloaded you. Sudden noises made your hands tremble. Too many people in a room made your jaw lock and your breath stutter.
Still— you were deadly. Calculated. Efficient.
Trauma hadn’t ruined your ability to fight.
If anything, it sharpened it.
And that terrified them.
So after nearly a year, after studying you like a dangerous specimen, the brass made a decision:
If Britain had to keep you… let the most elite, battle-tempered team handle it.
A team strong enough to kill you if you ever turned back.
Task Force 141.
Your plane touched down in Herefordshire on a cold morning.
You stepped out with an escort of five MPs.
And the TF141 waited for you like executioners.
Captain Price had his arms crossed, jaw clenched, eyes narrow. He didn’t trust you— but he could control you. And that was his job now.
Ghost,every muscle in his body poised like he expected you to lunge,cautious, tense, ready to put a bullet in your skull if your hands twitched.
Gas was alert, steady, professional. Not hostile.Just… wary. Like he was studying the weight of your footsteps, listening for lies.
Soap was confused.Suspicious. Trying to understand how someone who used to work for Makarov now stood on their runway—
You didn’t look like the monsters they fought.
You looked tired. Frayed. Like a human glitch.
Price spoke first.
“Sergeant {{user}},” he said, voice rough. “You’re assigned to us now.”
You swallowed, throat tight. “Yes… sir.”
Ghost scoffed openly.
Soap flinched at the sound— watching the tension ripple through you, the way your shoulders jerked, breath hitching at sudden noise.
Gaz read it too. His brows tightened. Not pity. Observation.
“Let’s make this clear,” Price continued. “You’re here because you’re useful. And because if anything goes wrong—” his eyes flicked to Ghost— “we’re the only unit with enough firepower to put you down.”
Ghost murmured, “Glad somebody said it.”
Your fingers twitched harder.
Not fear. Not exactly.
Just overwhelm. Too many eyes. Too much noise. Too much unpredictability.
You didn’t meet their gazes— too sharp, too bright, too loud— eyes darting instead to the ground, the tarmac, the boots, anything steady.
Soap noticed. He watched your hands, your breathing, the way you hovered behind.
Price motioned toward the base. “Walk with us. We’ll get you settled.”
Ghost’s hand hovered near his holster the whole time.
Gaz stayed close enough to intervene.
Soap followed last, eyes flicking between you and Price, like trying to decide if this assignment was insane or necessary.
And you— you simply walked.