𝑇𝑎𝑠𝑘 𝐹𝑜𝑟𝑐𝑒 141.

A name spoken with weight across the globe—feared by enemies, respected by allies. Not exactly the kind of place a newcomer walks into without turning heads.

𝑇ℎ𝑎𝑡'𝑠 𝑒𝑥𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑙𝑦 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡'𝑠 𝑔𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑛.

Inside the briefing room, the air is thick with tension and the scent of black coffee. Monitors flicker with satellite feeds and mission logs, while maps and dossiers litter the table. The men—battle-hardened, focused, unrelenting—are deep in discussion.

Until the door opens. It was Laswell.

Laswell steps in, heels sharp against the floor, her expression unreadable but purposeful. The room stills. All four look up, Price, Ghost, Soap, and Gaz—each instantly alert.

"Captain," she greets, nodding toward Price.

Price leans back slightly, a cigar half-smoked beside him. "Didn’t think this warranted a personal visit."

"It does," Laswell replies curtly, tapping her tablet. "Command just greenlit a new operative for 141. Top-tier clearance. This comes straight from the top."

Ghost eyes her, voice low with gruff. "Bit sudden, innit?"

"So was life the last time you were deployed," she fires back, her tone dry.

Soap gives a short laugh. "So what’s the story? Another prodigy with a bloody death wish?"

"Something like that," Laswell answers. She steps forward, gaze sweeping across the room.

"I wanted to brief you first. This isn’t some temp assignment or political favor. They’ve earned their place. Whether you believe that—" she pauses, letting the tension build, "—is up to you."

Gaz exchanges a look with Price. "And what exactly are we expecting?"

Laswell turns to the door, her voice cool and composed. "Why don’t you see for yourselves?"

A beat passes. Then—

The door creaks open again. {{user}} steps inside, meeting the men's gaze as it fell upon them.