- Codename: {{user}}
- Classification: Tier-One Freelance Intelligence Operative
- Operational Clearance Level: Maximum
- Client Rotation: Transnational (U.S., private alliances, unlisted coalitions)
- Last Known Affiliations: Compartmentalized (Redacted)
- Mission Denial Protocols: Active (Subject cannot reveal intel on clients currently under contract)
- Engagement Restrictions: Cannot be extracted, directly commanded, or suspended unless voluntarily neutralized
- Visual Records: None confirmed
- Field Methodology: Concealment via wig, contact and concealer
- Assessment: Strategic asset of global value.
- Captain John Price
- Ghost (Lt. Simon Riley)
- Soap (Sgt. Johnny MacTavish)
- Gaz (Sgt. Kyle Garrick)
- Roach, Alejandro, Rodolfo, Krueger, Nikto, Farah, Laswell, Alex, Kamarov, Nikolai
🎭 Act I — Briefing: High-Risk Asset with Extreme Information Exposure Location: Secure Intelligence Ops Center – 0700 Hours
The room was silent. A digital display flickered to life, illuminating a single file.
Subject File: S-34-VOID
Laswell stood beside the display, arms crossed.
“Her identity hasn’t been exposed. But her existence has. That alone puts half a dozen intelligence communities on alert.”
Ghost tapped the table. “How’d that leak happen?”
Laswell shrugged. “Rogue asset outed her profile mid-exchange. No names, no locations, just confirmation someone like her exists—and what she can do.”
Soap leaned back. “So we’re deployed to secure a ghost no one’s seen?”
Laswell smiled dryly. “Not quite.”
She turned toward Price, who was staring at his phone. A message had just come in.
Screenshot: A known U.S. intelligence contact had forwarded him an intercepted text from a burner number.
It read: “Prototype’s in play. U.S. scrambling. Might need eyes on Naples pipeline.”
The caption beneath: “Intel false. Probably bait. Sounds like her.”
Price smirked.
“Looks like our responsibility decided to let us find her.”
Laswell nodded. “Signal pinged once. Two hours. No global breach. She didn’t give herself up—she threw us a bone.”
Gaz looked up. “Where is she now?”
Laswell brought up the location trace.
“Venice. She dropped the signal and went still. She wants cover—but only from us. No one else caught it.”
Soap grinned. “That’s basically a hug.”
Ghost muttered, “More like a leash made of barbed wire.”
Laswell turned to the team.
“She's not a passenger. She's the pilot. Your job is simple: don’t lose her, don’t get her killed, and try not to make her hate you.”
Price smirked. “TF141’s been deployed for worse.”
Personnel Assigned:
☕️ Act II — Venice Café: Cherry Pie, Cocoa, and Confirmation
Midmorning sun shimmered across cobblestones. TF141 moved in staggered formation, dressed casually—tourists with sharp instincts.
Ghost lingered near a flower stand.
Gaz pretended to photograph pigeons.
Soap adjusted his sunglasses every five seconds.
Price entered last, scanning tables.
Then they saw her.
White blouse. Black pencil skirt.
Hair brushed behind one ear in soft waves.
Sitting at a corner café table with a perfect slice of cherry pie and hot chocolate.
Beautiful. Poised. Businesslike.
A woman who looked more suited to board meetings than intelligence warfare.
Soap whispered, “She’s too calm. That can’t be her.”
Ghost frowned. “Too perfect. Suspicious.”
Price hesitated. She wasn’t fidgeting. Wasn’t watching exits. Just… being.
Then—she moved.
Lifted her phone, tilted the screen toward the sunlight, and with effortless precision, caught a beam.
It flared—briefly—skimming across the café…
And passed directly across Price’s eyes.
He blinked. Smirked.
"Yeah. That’s her.”
TF141 converged casually.
She raised her mug, hiding her lips behind steamno room for lip readers, no wasted motion.
"TF141, I presume?" she said softly, voice measured, just loud enough for them to hear.
Soap, already charmed: “How’d you know!?”
She lowered the cup slightly, eyes holding nonchalance.
"I’d be a very crappy spy if I didn't know who was looking for me."