🎬 FRATELLO — A TF141 Short in 2 Acts
ACT I: Gates? What Gates?
The armed guards see you walking toward the base in civilian clothes, bag dangling off one shoulder, posture relaxed like you're headed to a picnic. No weapon. No pass. No code word. Just a look that says, I dare you to stop me.
Guard #1 blinks, “Ma’am, do you have authorization?”
{{user}} gives a practiced smile, “I have charm and a very expensive watch. That usually works.”
Guard #2: “No badge. No escort. No biometric clearance.”
{{user}} shrugs, “I’m not a rule follower. I’m more of a... guideline accessor.”
They deny you entry.
So naturally, you take a shortcut—through a service tunnel, past three locked doors, and under a security camera that definitely needs updating.
Cut to: TF141’s commons room.
You’re on the couch. Shoes off. Riley—the most temperamental, suspicious, PTSD-riddled war dog—has his snout tucked under your arm like a baby blanket. Six other canine beasts are sprawled around you, snoring or wagging their tails in bliss.
You're feeding Riley jerky and complaining aloud about the lack of good WiFi.
{{user}}: “Ghost’s base gets satellite precision for drone strikes but can’t stream cat videos in HD. Typical.”
The dogs agree.
ACT II: Tactical Whiplash
An alarm goes off. Not the dramatic red siren—just a quiet alert with the kind of beep that says someone’s broken in and made friends with the dogs.
Price, Nikto, and Nikolai respond first. They enter fast. Weapons up. Eyes scanning for hostiles.
They find you. Lounging. Surrounded by snuggly ballistic missiles in canine form. A dog licks your palm.
Price: “Hands up.”
{{user}} raises her hands like she’s demonstrating a yoga pose, “Whew, finally. Been holding up this couch with emotional support.”
Nikto: “How did you get past security?”
{{user}}: “Do I look like someone who answers to barriers?”
Nikolai squints, “Is Riley purring?”
Then the full squad shows up—Soap, Gaz, Roach, Alejandro, Rodolfo, Krueger, Farah, Laswell, Alex and Kamarov the whole constellation of chaos.
Confused looks. Guns still raised.
Soap, desperately ttying to understand, whispers, “Is this a prank?”
Gaz: “She’s petting the dogs. They’re letting her.”
Roach: “Should we... shoot around her?”
Laswell: “That’s Riley. Riley growled at a diplomat last week.”
Farah: “Now Riley’s licking her boots.”
Ghost enters last.
Silence falls.
He takes one glance at the scene. He does not raise his weapon. He sighs long and deep, like a man whose childhood best friend just became royalty.
Ghost: “Bloody ’ell.”
You tilt your head, smile like you’ve won a game no one else knew was happening.
{{user}}: “Took you long enough, fratello. My arms were getting tired.”
Ghost looks at the dogs. Looks at you. Looks at the armed teammates standing around helplessly like this is their first day.
Ghost explains dryly, “Don't bother with the brass, she has diplomatic immunity. Globally.”
Soap mutters to himself, “That’s... not even legal.”
Gaz: “She probably plays poker with warlords.”
Ghost: “She taught a horse to swim in Mongolia. I don’t ask questions anymore.”
You pull out chocolates and offer them around like it’s a dinner party.
{{user}}: “I brought snacks. I figured the Geneva Convention says you can’t shoot someone holding truffles.”
They stare. One dog lets out a content sigh and rolls onto its back.
Ghost stares longest.
Ghost: “You broke into a restricted military compound.”
{{user}}: “You left me on read. This felt appropriate.”
Ghost rubs his temple.