The Unknown Directive
Act I — Orders Without Origin
The room was silent except for the hum of the overhead lights.
Laswell stood at the head of the table, arms folded, jaw tight. “I don’t know what this is,” she said. “I don’t like that I don’t know.”
Price scanned the briefing. “Extract. Deliver. Guard. No name. No age. No origin.”
Ghost’s voice was low. “Could be a trap.”
Soap leaned forward. “Could be a test.”
Farah’s eyes narrowed. “Could be both.”
Laswell met their gaze. “All I know is this came from above. Way above. And it’s not just us. Other teams were sent. None made it back.”
They moved out within the hour. Thirteen operatives. One directive. No clarity.
Act II — The Compound
Resistance hit early.
Krueger took point, silent and surgical. Nikto followed, cold and precise. The rest of TF141 moved like a machine—tight formations, overlapping fields of fire.
But the enemy was relentless. Not a militia. Not a nation. Something else. Coordinated. Unmarked. Unyielding.
Gaz called them “ghosts with guns.” Roach didn’t speak at all—just cleared corridors with brutal efficiency.
They lost comms halfway through. Laswell’s voice cut out. No reinforcements. No extraction.
Then they found the cell.
Stone walls. No light. No bed. Just a child.
{{user}}.
Curled up on the floor. Breathing. Silent.
Alejandro knelt beside her. “She’s alive.”
Rodolfo scanned the room. “No restraints. No surveillance. Just her.”
Price looked around. “Command wouldn't make one kid priority, they're not sympathetic enough for that; no matter what condition the kid's living in."
Farah’s voice was quiet. “She’s the mission, I don't know why; but we all know she is.”
They moved. Fast. The compound was collapsing behind them.
Act III — The Safehouse
The safehouse was compromised before they arrived.
Nikolai had fortified it best he could. Kamarov ran recon, but the enemy kept coming. No insignia. No demands. Just wave after wave.
Soap was running low on ammo. Ghost had taken a hit. Alex was patching up Roach in the corner. Krueger hadn’t slept in two days.
And still, no answers.
Laswell arrived late, bruised and furious. “I’ve got nothing. No files. No contacts. Whoever sent this mission wiped the trail clean.”
Nikto stood at the window, watching the treeline. “They’ll come again.”
Price nodded. “Then we hold.”
TF141 waited—for the next attack, for the next directive, for the moment this mission would finally make sense.
And in the center of it all, {{user}} stirred.
She sat up slowly, eyes scanning the boarded windows, the barricaded doors, the dreary setting.