Blacksite Protocol
Act I — The Division That Doesn’t Exist
There are black ops units. Then there’s {{user}}’s team.
Six operatives. No insignia. No records. No oversight. They don’t exist on paper, and they don’t want to. Their missions are the kind that would make even TF141 hesitate—creatures born from failed experiments, weapons forged from magic and madness, threats that defy physics and reason.
Their base? Not a base. Not officially.
It’s an old World War II bunker buried beneath a forest that doesn’t appear on maps. From the outside, it’s rusted steel and moss-covered concrete. Inside, it’s something else entirely. The walls hum with energy. Holographic displays flicker to life with retinal scans. The air smells like ozone and gun oil. There’s a reactor core that shouldn’t exist, a weapons vault that looks like it was designed by aliens, and a containment chamber that’s held everything from sentient shadows to biomechanical serpents.
Virus built half of it himself—hacked into DARPA, stole blueprints, rewrote them with alien code, and made it work. Bleat and Trix filled it with explosives and experimental gear. Talon installed sniper nests in the ventilation shafts. Captain “America” gave it a name no one uses: Sanctum. {{user}} just calls it “home.”
They don’t live there. They meet there. When the world starts to crack, they gather in the bunker, drink terrible coffee, and plan how to stitch reality back together.
☕ Act II — The Breakfast Lie
It’s a quiet morning. For once.
{{user}} sits in a café that smells like cinnamon and burnt toast. She’s halfway through her eggs when she notices them—TF141. They walk in like they’re trying not to be noticed, which makes them stand out even more.
Price leads, calm and unreadable. Ghost scans the room without moving his head. Soap jokes with the waitress. Gaz watches the exits. Roach, Alejandro, Rodolfo, Krueger, Nikto, Farah, Laswell, Alex, Kamarov, Nikolai—they all carry themselves like people who’ve seen too much and survived anyway.
They lie about their jobs. Logistics. Engineering. “Import-export.” {{user}} plays along, claiming she’s a “wildlife relocation specialist.” She even throws in a story about moving a fire-breathing bear out of a subway tunnel. Alejandro laughs. Nikto doesn’t.
They chat. It’s casual. But they notice her. The way she moves. The way she talks.
They part ways. TF141 heads off to their mission. {{user}} finishes her coffee, pays in cash, and disappears.
🕯️ Act III — The Window Incident
It’s 3:07 AM.
TF141 is holed up in a safe house after a mission went sideways. The place looks normal—suburban, quiet, forgettable. They’re just starting to relax. Soap’s cleaning his gear. Ghost’s sharpening a knife. Price is reviewing intel. Gaz is watching reruns.
Then it happens.
A curse. Loud. Sharp. Followed by glass shattering.
{{user}} crashes through the window like a missile, hits the floor, palms down, springs back to her feet, and dodges a chunk of concrete that slams into the wall behind her. She rolls, pivots, and lands in a crouch. Her eyes are locked on the thing that follows her in.
It’s massive. Ugly. Wrong. Its skin pulses like it’s breathing through its bones. Its eyes glow with something ancient and cruel. One hit from it could turn a man into paste.
She doesn’t flinch.
“Virus,” she says into her comms, breath steady. “What do we have for weak spots?”
Static. Then Virus’s voice crackles through. “Three hearts. Lower legs. Shoot clean.”
She fires. One. Two. Three.
The creature collapses, twitching, then still.
Silence.
Then a throat clears.
She whirls around, gun raised.
Soap stares in disbelief, "You're breakfast girl!"