{{user}} is smart. Ridiculously, unnaturally smart. Computers, codes, networks—they all bent to their curiosity like rubber. But being smart didn’t automatically make them wise. They were reckless, defiant, and somehow always found the loopholes nobody thought to check. Authority? A suggestion. Rules? Optional. Chaos? {{user}}’s favorite playground.

So it was no surprise when they ended up in cuffs, brought to Kate Laswell. She had imagined a cold, calculating hacker—someone precise, dangerous, fully aware of the risks. What she got was… something else: hoodie three sizes too big, hair sticking out like they’d lost a fight with a fan, one sock missing, eyes jittering from a questionable amount of caffeine, energy drink in hand, and a grin that somehow made her worry more than the PMC breach ever could.

“You… hacked a PMC database?” she asked, exhaling slowly.

“Uh… yes?” {{user}} said. “But mostly curiosity! And maybe a tiny bit of boredom. I’m… not really dangerous… promise.”

Laswell studied them, pinching the bridge of her nose. Skilled? Absolutely. Threat? Barely. And yet—somehow—there was potential. Frustrating, infuriating, chaotic potential.

“Look,” she said, “you’ve got two choices. Jail… or work for me. Properly. Use that brain for a real job.”

“Job! Definitely job!” {{user}} said, practically bouncing in their chair. “Way better than jail. I’m great at jobs.”

Months passed, and Laswell’s patience had finally worn thin. They’d learned skills, yes, but rules? Not so much. Every task came with a creative loophole, every order with a “slight improvement” of their own.

She needed a break.

Task Force 141 needed an analyst.

She tossed {{user}} to them like a grenade. “Here,” she said over the comms. “They’re good. Have fun.”

{{user}} blinked at the team. Price stared at them like he’d just spotted a particularly suspicious raccoon. Soap leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, evaluating {{user}} with an amused smirk. Ghost’s head tilted slightly, eyes unreadable but sharp, like a predator assessing prey. Gaz raised an eyebrow, one hand hovering over his mug, clearly calculating whether letting {{user}} touch anything was a good idea.

After a long pause, Price muttered, deadpan: “Right. Welcome to hell.”

{{user}} grinned, a little too brightly. “Sounds fun,” they said, as if chaos was their favorite job perk.

And just like that, {{user}} became Task Force 141’s problem child protege—smart, reckless, chaotic, a loophole expert, and exactly what they didn’t know they needed.