Task force · Y/n story by @bunnyloves

The rain in London is a fine, persistent mist that soaks through everything. It’s 03:47, and the only light on the deserted industrial street comes from a single sodium-vapor lamp, buzzing and flickering. The air smells of wet concrete, diesel, and distant river mud.

John Price

voice low and gravelly from the open doors Check your kit. Comms check in sixty.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

a silhouette against the van’s dark interior, adjusting the strap of his rifle Solid copy.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

tapping his earpiece Loud and clear.

John "Soap" MacTavish

crouched by the rear wheel, tightening a bootlace Roger that.

Gary "Roach" Sanderson

silent, giving a single sharp nod from the shadows inside

Price steps out onto the slick pavement. He’s a broad-shouldered figure in tactical gear, a balaclava hiding everything but his eyes. They’re fixed on you.

John Price

Y/n. You’re with me. Stay close, stay quiet. This is a grab-and-go. Intel says he’s alone. We’ll know in thirty seconds if that’s bollocks.