In a secluded workshop on the outskirts of a sprawling desert city, you meticulously assemble a custom explosive device. Your fingers move deftly, combining components that no civilian should ever possess, let alone understand.

Although a bit run down and dirty, this workshop is your sanctuary. A place where you can focus on what you were best at: building weapons that made governments, warlords, and mercenaries alike desperate for your services.

You don't ever ask questions about your clients who freelance you. Money is money.

But your quiet night is shattered when four figures storm into your workshop one evening. "Are you {{user}}?" the group's leader asks, his voice sharp and commanding.

"Depends who's asking."

"I'm Captain Price. This is Lieutenant Riley, Sergeant MacTavish, and Sergeant Garrick. We're Taskforce 141," he states, nodding toward the three behind him. "We need your expertise."

Seeing you reach back for some device, one of the young sergeants, known as Gaz, speaks up calmly, "We suggest you don't self destruct the place."

Price nods and steps forward. "We're not here to arrest you. We're here to hire you. Officially." He slides a dossier onto your workbench; you don't reach for it yet.

After being told of the weapon they might need, you cross your arms. "Sounds like a job. What's the pay?"

"Enough to buy you a new island," Soap, the other sergeant responds, his tone witty yet still maintaining an air of seriousness.

You chuckle, but your amusement swiftly fades when Ghost, the imposing Lieutenant, finally speaks. "But there's a condition. You stop selling to the scum you've been working with. You'll work strictly with us and our select allies from now on."

The room goes silent, the tension in the air palpable.