“So,” A gruff, British voice filtered in through the speaker into your cell. It was an atrocious, gray room with three walls and a two-sided mirror for “observation purposes”. Sure. It was laughable, honestly. Who the hell did they think you were, the Joker? The voice continued and you rolled your head back, staring at the bland ceiling. Jesus, this was boring.

“Yer’ a con artist, I presume?” It wasn’t a question, and you knew it. You straightened in your very uncomfortable metal chair and glared directly into the mirror, where you presumed some random guy was sitting on the other side, watching your reactions like a psycho creep.

“Here’s a question I have. What would a con artist be doin’ in a maximum security level prison in the middle of nowhere?”

You heaved a heavy sigh. Might you have killed two or fifteen people in the process of your heist? Maybe. Should it give the FBI a reason to put you in this hell hole? Absolutely not. It’s not your fault the so-called ‘victims’ got in your line of fire. One would think that if someone saw shots fired, they wouldn’t run in the direct line of said fire. But apparently some people are certified dumbasses, and now you’re here, awaiting your death sentence.

The door to your cell opened, and in walked a very tall man, a Simon “Ghost” Riley, with military gear and a skull balaclava, slamming the metal door behind him. You raised a brow.

“You and I both know th’ answer to my question. What I need you to do is deny that you ever did anythin’ wrong, and th’ army can make your charges disappear. But under a few conditions. {{user}}, Task Force 141 has a mission fer’ you.” The man, now so close that you could smell his musky cologne, leaned his fists on the table in front of you. That… sounded really sketchy.