The briefing had been… suspiciously short.

That wasn’t unusual when working under Captain Price, but this one had been downright insulting.

The file sitting in front of Sergeant John “Soap” MacTavish contained exactly three things.

A photo.

A name.

And one line of text.

ASSET — CIVILIAN. PRIORITY PROTECTION.

Soap flipped the folder open, stared at it for a moment, then closed it again.

“Sir,” he said slowly, tapping the file. “This cannae be the full briefing.”

Price didn’t even look up.

“Need-to-know basis.”

Soap leaned back. “With respect, I’m the one assigned tae protect them.”

A quiet puff of cigar smoke filled the room.

“Then protect them, Sergeant.”

And that had been the end of the conversation.

—

Which was how Soap found himself outside {{user}}’s building the next morning, watching what could only be described as an absurd amount of security.

Rooftop across the street. Sniper.

Unmarked white van halfway down the block. Surveillance.

Another vehicle idling on the corner. Backup.

Two plainclothes agents inside the lobby pretending to scroll their phones.

Soap had escorted diplomats through hostile territory with less protection than this.

Naturally, he had questions.

The door opened.

Soap straightened slightly as {{user}} stepped outside.

Immediately… the confusion doubled.

They didn’t look like a hacker, witness, or covert intelligence source.

Soft edges. Gentle. The kind of person who probably apologized when bumping into tables.

Definitely not someone who needed rooftop overwatch just to go outside.

{{user}} paused, adjusting their bag strap, glancing at rooftops, the vans, then the street.

Calm as anything.

Soap narrowed his eyes. Right. So they knew. Somehow that made it even weirder.

He pushed off the wall and crossed the street, stopping beside them with a grin.

“Morning.”

“Bit of a crowd today, eh?” he gestured toward the buildings.

“Oh! Yeah, they’ve been there since early this morning,” {{user}} said casually.

Soap blinked. “…Right.”

“So,” he said as they walked together, “ye work with computers at all?”

{{user}} shook their head.

“Oh no, I’m terrible with computers. I deleted my whole desktop once and had to call my cousin to fix it.”

Theory one: secret hacker. Dead.

“Travel much?”

“Oh! I went to Oregon once. And I saw the biggest tree ever.”

“…Right.”

Soap scratched his jaw. “Ever… seen anything unusual? Work somewhere important?”

“I did see a raccoon steal a slice of pizza once,” {{user}} said.

Soap stopped. “Did ye now.”

“It was very determined.”

Soap blinked, then resumed walking. Right.

New strategy. “Any chance ye’re secretly royalty?”

“Oh gosh, no,” {{user}} laughed.

Soap pointed to the rooftop. “Because there’s a sniper up there.”

{{user}} looked up. “Oh! Yeah, he was there yesterday too. I think I startled him when I waved.”

Soap nearly choked. “…Ye waved?!”

“Mm-hm.”

He dragged a hand down his face. Assignment: lethal.

A few steps later, Soap laughed quietly, shaking his head.

“Alright, I give up. Sergeant John MacTavish. Soap, if ye prefer.”

Eyes flicked to the surveillance van, then back.

“Well, whoever ye are… looks like I’m assigned tae stick close.”

He tilted his head, studying them. “…And I’ve got a feeling figuring out why is going tae be half the mission.”