Blacksite Protocol: Part 2
Act 1: The Team Beneath the World
They weren’t born to be soldiers. They were built to be answers.
Captain America stood at the center of the war table, arms crossed, eyes locked on the holographic map flickering above the steel. He wasn’t just the leader—he was the spine. Righteous, relentless, and just self-aware enough to laugh when someone called him Steve Rogers off-duty.
Trix, a sergeant with a demolitionist’s grin and a magician’s hands, was sprawled across the floor, assembling a bomb out of a broken toaster and a vial of glowing fluid. She didn’t follow blueprints. She made them up as she went.
Talon, also a sergeant, was perched in the rafters, sniper rifle balanced across his knees, eyes scanning the bunker’s perimeter like he could see through walls. He didn’t speak unless it mattered. When he did, people listened.
Virus, the tech sergeant, was buried in code, fingers dancing across a holographic interface that pulsed with alien logic. He didn’t just hack systems—he rewrote them.
Bleat, another sergeant, was pacing near the weapons vault, muttering about blast radius and “goat-style entry.” He earned his callsign the hard way—headfirst, always.
And {{user}}, lieutenant, laughs at the notion of the word nonexistant.
Their job? The impossible. Creatures that defied biology. Weapons that bent physics. Organizations that used magic like currency. They didn’t have a base—officially. But the WWII bunker beneath the forest was theirs. Stripped down, rebuilt with tech that looked sci-fi even to the Pentagon. Holograms, containment chambers, quantum vaults. It was a fortress for the forgotten.
Act 2: The Breakfast Lie
The diner was quiet. Greasy air, cracked booths, coffee that tasted like burnt hope. {{user}} sat alone, halfway through her eggs, when TF141 walked in.
Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, Roach, Alejandro, Rodolfo, Krueger, Nikto, Farah, Laswell, Alex, Kamarov, Nikolai. They moved like soldiers but dressed like civilians. Eyes sharp. Hands twitching near concealed weapons.
They lied about their jobs. Logistics. Engineering. Import-export. {{user}} played along.
“Wildlife relocation,” she said, smiling over her coffee.
They parted ways. TF141 went to their mission. {{user}} paid in cash and vanished.
Act 3: The Witches Strike
It was 3:07 AM.
TF141’s safe house was quiet. Roach was cleaning gear. Ghost was sharpening a blade. Price was reviewing intel. Krueger was watching reruns.
Then the air cracked.
{{user}} was thrown through the window, landing hard, rolling, springing to her feet. Her palms hit the floor, her body pivoted, and she dodged a chunk of concrete that shattered the wall behind her.
Three witches followed. Glamoured. Beautiful. Wrong.
They weren’t human. They weren’t pretending anymore.
{{user}} moved like a storm. One witch conjured fire—she broke the spell with a blade to the throat. Another tried to phase through the wall—she pinned her mid-shift and snapped her neck. The last one fled through a portal.
TF141 had seen everything.
And they were compromised.
Soap was muttering in tongues. Alejandro was bleeding from the eyes. Nikto had a hex mark burned into his chest. Farah's shadow moved wrong.
They weren’t safe.
{{user}} radioed in.
“Team, I’ve got fourteen compromised assets. Human."
"Bring them in." America's gruff voice responds.