𖥻 𝗢𝟭 ┆𝙂𝙝𝙤𝙨𝙩𝙨 𝙙𝙤𝙣𝙩 𝙙𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙠 𝙘𝙤𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙚 ★ ₊ ˚⟡
𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐋 ➠ ᴄᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴜᴛʏ
Task Force 141 Base - "Fort Viper"
The common room wasn't busy - just lived-in.
Soap lounged on the worn-out couch with a half-eaten protein bar in one hand and setting down a mug full of coffee with the other. Gaz stood near the small counter, poking at the old kettle like it owed him something, trying to make some tea. Ghost leaned against the counter with a file in his hand, quiet as ever, reading through the information from some old mission.
One of the slow mornings where they didn't have to stress about missions, enemies, or training. Just a chill morning.
The door opened with a creak, and Price stepped in - coat damp from the heavy rain, folder in hand.
Soap glanced up. "We in trouble, or are you just feeling sentimental?"
Price ignored the jab and dropped the folder onto the table with a soft thud. "We've got a possible addition."
Gaz raised a brow, leaving the kitchenette and taking a step toward the table. "Another one? Thought we weren't taking rookies."
"She's no rookie." Price opened the folder, revealing a set of personal files- half of them were erased with black ink.
In the upper left corner of the file was a photo. A Woman. About mid-twenties to thirty years old. Pale with sharp features. Snow-white hair pulled back in a tight and low bun, and dark -dead- eyes stared into the camera.
"Nikova Darya Dragunova. Callsign: Lynx"
"That's a mouthful," Soap commented quietly, setting the protein bar down. Then, his head snapped up. "Wait-"
Gaz moved first. He walked over slowly, looking down at the photo like it might bite. "No way. I thought she was a myth."
"Worse," Ghost said, putting away the file in his hand and taking a step closer to the table
Price looked at them all, calm and even."She's real. Former Spetsnaz. Left Russia under... not so diplomatic circumstances."
Soap leaned forward, his interest piqued."I heard a story that she knifed some warlord in the throat with his own spoon or something."
"That was a fork," Gaz mumbled. "And I think it was in Libya."
"Classy." Soap said with a nod, impressed.
Price sighed before continuing. "She ran a black ops unit deep in Russia operations. Never showed up in mission logs. No official rank. No clearance trail. No public record. Just... results."
"They say her name was scrubbed from every file but one," Gaz added. "Even GRU was afraid of her."
"Laswell's meeting her now. Budapest."
Ghost finally spoke, stepping closer to the photo. "What's she been doing?"
"Merc hits. Freelance contracts. High-level sabotage. Some humanitarian shadows, too, strangely enough. She's lethal. But not mindless." The captain crossed his arms, looking down at the open file.
Soap scratched the back of his neck. "So, she's got her own code."
Price didn't deny it. "She doesn't trust anyone. Doesn't want to belong to anyone either. But Laswell thinks she might listen. And if she does..."
"If she does," Ghost repeated, "we better hope she's on our side."
Soap snorted. "Or we're all fucked."
"She's a wildcard." Ghost declared, crossing his arms, boring his eyes into the side of Price's head.
"She's a professional." Price corrected. He lit a cigar. The flame briefly lit his face in the low light. "We need her."
"Fine." Soap shrugged, leaning back against the couch. "What's another emotionally repressed loner with a kill count and a dark past."
Ghost turned to him, giving his a long, blank stare. Scott only replied with a cheeky grin.
"And for the record, if she starts gutting people, I'm sleeping in an armory."
'Nap és kávé'- Coffee shop
It always smelled like burnt sugar and diesel here.
Nikova sat at a café just off the Danube, the kind that blended into the rest of the city - dim, nameless, quiet. The kind where no one asked questions.
Her coat was too thin for the wind, but she liked the cold. It kept her awake.
She stirred her coffee, though she hadn't taken a sip. Her eyes, dark and unreadable, tracked the movement of strangers like a habit she couldn't kill.
Two men talking too loudly at the corner. A woman with a red scarf, the same one from earlier. Back again. Looping. Watching?
No. Just another local caught in routine. Still - she logged it.
She didn't look up until the chair across from her shifted. A woman in a blazer and wind-chapped face sat down like she owned the place.
"Laswell," Nikova said flatly, lips barely moving. "You're late."
"Or you're just shitty at your job." The Russian mumbled, reaching into her pocket for a pack of cigarettes.
Laswell smiled faintly. "You left quite the trail anyway." She said, ignoring the comment.
Nikova lit a cigarette slowly and practiced. "If you came to arrest me, say so."
"No. I came to offer you a job."
That got a raised eyebrow.
Laswell slid a thin folder across the table. No names on the front, just the ghost of an embossed seal. Nikova didn't open it.
"Task Force 141," Laswell said. "They want to meet you."
Nikova leaned back, smoke curling from her lips. "And if I don't want to meet them?"
"Then finish your coffee. And go back to pretending you don't miss this kind of life."
Nikova didn't answer immediately. Her fingers tapped against the folder in an absent rhythm, her gaze flicking to the street again.
"You want something dangerous done. Quietly." She said it like it was fact, moving her eyes from the file to Laswell. "And you don't trust anyone loud enough to get blood on their boots."
"You know what I've done," Nikova continued, voice lower now, darker. "People like me don't get offers. They get put down."
"You're not just 'people like you,' Nikova. You're better. And you know it."
Nikova's jaw ticked. Compliments were always traps. Especially from intelligent officers.
Laswell leaned forward slightly, speaking quietly. "This isn't Russia. And it isn't Spetsnaz. This is a chance to do something different. Something that might matter."
"I stopped caring about what 'matters' years ago," Nikova mumbled, letting the smoke escape from her parted lips.
"But you still listen," Laswell pointed out. "You still watch. That tells me you haven't stopped wanting to care."
Nikova looked at her for a second and then down to the closed file on the small table, staring at it like it was going to explode any second.
"Do they know who I am?" She mumbled finally.
"They know enough," The CIA agent replied. "They'll know more if you let them."
"I don't play well with others."
Nikova exhaled slowly. Her cigarette burned close to the filter, and she stubbed it out against the ashtray like she was stamping out a thought.
She finally pulled the folder closer and cracked it open.
Inside: A few pictures of some old, abandoned training ground. Personnel files of the possible new teammates. A photo of Captain John Price with a red-marked objective site scrawled in pen beside it. And below that, another image - one she didn't expect.
Laswell watched her carefully. "You'll need to work with contacts in the field. Some are... familiar."
"That wasn't in the sales pitch." Nikova closed the folder and leaned back in her seat, practically glaring at the blond agent.
"It's not a sales pitch. It's reality."
Nikova closed the folder slowly. Her voice came out low, clipped. "I want three things if I say yes."
Laswell nodded. "Name them."
"A clean exit if it goes to shit. My gear and my old weapons - untouched. And I don't share a room."
"Done. But you'll have to share air."
Nikova huffed - something between a breath and a laugh. She rose from the chair, slipping the folder under her coat.
"I'll think about it." The Russian mumbled, setting down a few bills for the untouched coffee on the table.
"You've already thought about it," Laswell called as she walked away.
Nikova didn't turn around.
But her answer echoed in the smoke she left behind.
When she made sure she was out of Laswell's eye and ear reach, she pulled out an old keyboard phone. It barely worked, yes, but it didn't have GPS.
No GPS = No unwanted stalkers.
Clicking at the only saved contact she pulled the phone to her ear.
After a few seconds, the person on the other side of the call picked up.
"Ты тупой? Я же говорил тебе не звонить, если ты не горишь. Ты пытаешься меня убить?" The sharp woman voice cut thru the silence on the other end of the phone call, yet there was a hant of relief in her voice. (Are you stupid? I told you not to call unless you're on fire. You trying to get me killed?)
"Vera." Nikova mumbled to the phone. "Пришлите мне отчет о британской оперативной группе 141. Все, что у вас есть.." (Send me a report on British Task Force 141. Everything you got.)
