Chapter Text
The rotor blades cut through the cold Credenhill air, a deep mechanical thrum echoing over the wide stretch of the nearly completed base. Dust and loose gravel swirled up from the landing pad, the wind catching in the brims of helmets and the edges of tactical jackets. Captain John Price stood just off the tarmac, the collar of his field jacket turned up against the morning chill, the faint glow of his cigar ember reflected in his eyes as he watched the chopper descend.
Beside him, Kate Laswell stood with her hands clasped behind her back, her hair pulled tight, and posture sharp. Her voice rose slightly to be heard over the whine of the helicopter.
“You look like a man about to meet a ghost,” she said dryly.
Price exhaled smoke through his nose, eyes never leaving the descending bird. “You said she was a legend. Legends usually come with trouble.”
“Or save you from it,” Laswell countered.
The helicopter’s skids hit the ground with a soft thud, the turbines whining down to a low growl. The air was heavy with the smell of jet fuel and stirred earth. Around them, a dozen soldiers stood at attention. Some out of respect, and others out of sheer curiosity. Word had spread fast through the base that Fox was coming.
A figure emerged in the open door of the helicopter. You moved with the kind of precision that couldn’t be taught – every motion exact, efficient, and stripped of vanity. A black long-sleeved top hugged your frame, the fabric worn enough to suggest it had seen the field more than once. Your cargo pants were standard issue, but the way you wore them had an easy weight of confidence in your stance. The faint sheen of dust along your boots caught the morning light as you stepped down, the bandana tied across your forehead fluttering briefly in the downdraft.
You hit the ground and straightened slowly, scanning the base like you were taking inventory. Your gaze swept from the watchtowers to the hangars, and to the lines of soldiers who couldn’t seem to look away. There was calculation in your eyes, like an old instinct that never really turned off.
Laswell’s voice dropped, almost reverent. “There she is.”
Price didn’t respond. He just studied you, thumb brushing against the worn edge of his glove. You lifted your chin slightly, eyes narrowing as you took in the sight of the two figures waiting for you at the edge of the pad. The wind tugged at your hair, the sunlight glinting off the faint metal clasp of your gear harness.
You started walking toward them as the soldiers subtly stepped aside, the ripple of your presence almost tangible. Each stride was confident but measured, heels barely making a sound against the concrete. You didn’t need to command attention – it followed you on instinct.
Price took a slow draw from his cigar, the smoke curling lazily between them. Up close, he could see the details Laswell’s file hadn’t captured. There was a faint scar that ran along your jawline, the tired sharpness in your eyes that spoke too many missions gone right and wrong in equal measure. You were calm, but not relaxed. Watchful, as if every movement, every sound on this base was being cataloged and filed away in your head.
“Fox,” Laswell greeted with that rare hint of warmth in her tone. “Good to see you.”
You gave her a nod, eyes briefly scanning the base before landing back on her. “Pulling me out of my home in Alaska wasn’t exactly the retirement I had in mind.”
Laswell’s lip twitched into something between apology and understanding. “Sorry to drag you from the peace you built.”
You looked past her shoulder at the horizon, the outlines of barracks and hangars cutting sharp against the morning light. “Peace was temporary,” you said simply. “War always finds me, one way or another.”
Laswell’s gaze softened, just slightly. “Then let’s make it count.”
The hum of the helicopter faded into silence, and she gestured toward the man beside her. “This is Captain John Price of Task Force 141,” her tone carried quiet weight, a touch of admiration. “John, this is Y/N. Codename Fox. Best damn infiltrator I’ve ever worked with.”
Price stood with his arms crossed, the brim of his boonie hat shadowing sharp blue eyes that studied everything and revealed nothing. His gaze met yours in a brief, silent clash of willpower. You could almost hear the gears turning in his head as he sized you up.
“So you’re the legend they pulled out of the wild,” Price said, voice low and gravelly, with that distinct London edge softened by years in the field.
You tilted your head, the corner of your mouth barely twitching. “’Legend’ just means I lived long enough to regret a few things.”
He smirked then, barely there, but enough to crease the corner of his eyes. “Fair enough. Let’s see if the stories do you justice.”
You took a half step close, the distance between you charged with quiet appraisal. “That depends on who’s telling them.”
There was a beat of silence with just the wind moving through the base and the faint clatter of tools somewhere down the runway. Neither of you looked away. Laswell glanced between you both, the tension almost palpable but not unfriendly.
She gave a small, knowing exhale. “You two will get along just fine,” she said.
Price finally uncrossed his arms. “We’ll see about that.”
The three of you made your way through the Credenhill base with boots echoing on concrete, the crisp chill of English air mixing with the faint metallic tang of oil and gunpowder. Price walked a step behind as Laswell briefed you on the logistics of what would become Task Force 141: supply routes, barracks construction, and personnel rotations.
The rest of Laswell’s words drowned out as gunfire cracked through the air. Not the clean rhythm of trained drills. This was uneven, sloppy, and far too loud for comfort. A mix of semi-auto bursts and undisciplined snaps of live rounds.
Price’s jaw tightened, his eyes following the sound. “Bloody hell…”
Laswell didn’t flinch, just adjusted her pace toward the sound. You and Price followed, boots quickening against the floor. The scent of gunpowder thickened as you approached the range doors.
Inside, the space was half-lit by fluorescents. A handful of recruits lined the booths, putting rounds downrange at paper silhouettes. Their stances were inconsistent – some solid, some careless. While one in particular stood out – young and cocky. The sort who wore arrogance like body armor. He was spinning his M1911 on his finger, trying to flick the hammer with his thumb like some cowboy in a film.
Price let out a low grunt, taking one step forward, ready to bark an order. But you were already moving. He frowned as he noticed. “You don’t have to—”
Laswell’s hand caught his sleeve, stopping him mid-step. “Watch.”
Price paused, gaze narrowing as you closed the distance between yourself and the recruit. Your boots made no sound on the concrete, but the young soldier noticed the shift in air. He turned his head, grinning faintly, still twirling the pistol. The moment his finger brushed the trigger mid-spin, you moved.
Your hand shot forward, catching the slide cleanly mid-motion, twisting the gun out of his grip before he realized what had happened. The weapon was stripped and cleared in less than two seconds. The recruit just stared, caught between embarrassment and awe.
“Revolver technique, huh?” your voice carried easily over the echo of gunfire, steady but sharp enough to slice through the noise.
“I— I was just—” he started, words tumbling out before dying under your stare.
You flicked the slide back, checked the chamber, noticing the engravings. Then, you looked him straight in the eye. “You know,” you said, tone almost casual, though every syllable landed heavy. “The engravings give you no tactical advantage whatsoever.”
You turned the pistol in your hand, thumb tracing the etched metal like it was a bad tattoo someone thought was a good idea.
“And trying tricks like that in a real fight?” you met his gaze again, voice low and certain. “It’s one way of telling your enemy to jam the damn gun on you.”
The kid swallowed hard. He blinked once, twice, then nodded. You handed the weapon back, grip-first, like a lesson and a warning both.
“Tricks like that belong in movies,” you said, tone cool and final. “Not on my range.”
The silence that followed was thick enough to taste. Then, with his jaw tight, the recruit squared his shoulders, adjusted his stance, and fired three clean shots. Each round cracked sharp and deliberate. He turned and saluted, and you gave him a single nod, then turned and walked back toward Laswell and Price.
The Captain’s jaw tightened just a fraction when he heard you say, “my range”. It wasn’t disrespectful, not even close, but it struck something in him.
Laswell, on the other hand, looked smug. “Told you she knows how to handle soldiers.”
“She’s not handling mine,” he muttered, voice low, a growl softened by the ghost of a laugh.
Laswell raised a brow, folding her arms. “John—”
“I’m still the captain here,” he said quietly. “Your legend doesn’t give orders to my lads. She’s here to help, not command.”
Laswell’s smirk curved a little higher. “You always were territorial.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head once. “No, Kate. I’m practical,” he nodded toward you, whose eyes were on the recruits straightening under your glance. “Chain of command keeps people alive.”
Price wasn’t blind. He’d seen his share of good soldiers who are steady ones, reckless ones, the kind that burned bright and died quick. But you were something else. The way you moved and spoke wasn’t bravado or ego – it was experience. Years of it, baked into your every breath. Hell, you were good.
He leaned a little closer to Laswell, lowering his voice just under the crack of distant gunfire. “You planning on letting her talk to my men like that?”
Laswell didn’t even blink. “They needed the correction,” she said simply.
Price grunted, the sound deep in his chest. “They need it from their captain,” he muttered.
She turned her head just enough to meet his eyes. “You’re not threatened, are you?”
Price let out a quiet laugh, dry as old whiskey smoke. “Hardly,” he said, voice low and even, but there was iron in it. “Just like to keep the lines clear. She’s here to help with missions, not run my bloody unit.”
Laswell smiled faintly. “You’ll get used to her.”
“You say that like I don’t have enough headaches,” he muttered. “She’s not part of 141. You made that clear. My men report to me, not a CIA ghost with a reputation. I don’t need confusion in command.”
Laswell gave a slight shrug, half half-turn of her shoulders. “Call her what you want, John. She’s still on our side.”
Price didn’t answer. His eyes tracked you as you crossed the range again, the bandana catching the light, your movements sharp, precise, but quiet. You didn’t bark orders, only guided them. His gaze lingered longer than he meant it to, seeing that you were composed, like every ounce of calm you carried was holding back something else underneath.
He couldn’t decide if you were the calm before the storm or the storm itself. And that unsettled him more than he’d ever admit aloud.
The rhythmic scrape of metal against stone filled your barracks. A quiet, deliberate sound that steadied your hands and your thoughts. You drew the whetstone across the blade again, slow and even, until the edge gleamed under the dim light.
If Laswell hadn’t sent her team to your doorstep in your cabin in Alaska, you’d be far from this concrete cage. You could almost picture the front on the windowpane, the kettle steaming, the quiet. The peace was shattered the moment the black SUVs pulled up outside your cabin. One conversation later, and you were back in uniform, sharpening knives instead of chopping wood.
You exhaled through your nose, resting the knife on the table beside the others with a neat row of precision and purpose. Time in the barracks stretched in that strange way it always did before a mission. The hum of distant clatter echoed faintly through the halls. You caught yourself staring at the clock on the wall – five minutes to the meeting.
With a final glance at your reflection in the metal of your blade, you holstered it, adjusted your vest, and stepped out. The corridor leading to the briefing room was dimly list, humming with the faint buzz of fluorescent lights. Your boots struck the floor in even, measured rhythm. When you pushed open the door to the briefing room, every head turned.
Price was already there, cigar in hand, shoulders squared in his usual unbothered stance. Simon “Ghost” Riley leaned against the far wall, silent as ever, mask hiding whatever reaction he might’ve had. John “Soap” MacTavish sat on the edge of the table, tapping a pen against his thigh, while Kyle “Gaz” Garrick looked over a set of maps, brows drawn in focus.
General Shepherd stood at the front, arms crossed. “Glad you could join us,” he said, his tone carrying that familiar edge between approval and warning.
You nodded once, stepping closer to the table. “Didn’t realize I was late, sir.”
“You’re not,” Laswell’s voice cut in from where she stood near the projector. “But they were early.”
“Everyone,” Shepherd began, his voice deep and commanding. “We’ve got ourselves a new player in the field. Laswell thought it was time you met.”
Price stood beside Laswell, cigar unlit between his fingers, jaw set in quiet disapproval. He already knew your measure, your precision, your control, and the way you didn’t need to raise your voice to command a room. Your black long-sleeve fitted beneath your vest, tactical pants tucked into boots, and a dark bandana keeping your hair back. Your expression was carved in discipline, eyes sharp enough to cut through the curiosity.
Laswell gestured toward you, her tone even. “You’ve all heard the name. This is Fox. Specialist in infiltration and solo operations.”
Soap gave a low whistle, leaning back in his chair. “So the legend’s real, then.”
A flicker of amusement ghosted across your eyes, but you didn’t bite. Ghost said nothing as he simply tilted his head slightly, assessing you from behind that skull-patterned mask. Gaz nodded once, polite but cautious, his eyes betraying that flicker of professional curiosity.
“She’s not part of 141,” Laswell continued. “But she’ll be running joint missions with the team. You’ve already met Captain Price.”
Your eyes flicked briefly toward him, then you turned your focus to the rest of them, posture relaxed but sharp, command presence settling naturally into the room.
“Task Force 141,” you said evenly. “The best handpicked group of warriors on the planet. Heard a lot about each of you.”
Soap leaned back with that familiar grin, accent warm with mischief. “Aye, hope it’s all good things.”
A faint smile tugged at your lips. “Mostly.”
A few chuckles broke the tension, light but respectful. Even Ghost’s posture shifted, subtle but telling.
From the head of the table, Shepherd’s voice broke through. “I’ll let you get acquainted with the rest of the team, Fox. You’ll be seeing plenty of each other in the coming weeks.”
You inclined your head slightly, but inside, something about his tone crawled under your skin. There was something in Shepherd’s grin that didn’t feel like confidence. Still, you masked it easily, standing straight, expression unreadable.
Shepherd clasped his hands behind his back. “Task Force 141 is officially in operation, then," he gave a curt nod. “Dismissed.”
Chairs scraped lightly against the floor as the men stood. Price lingered by the table, cigar between his teeth, eyes cutting your way once before looking to Laswell.
Soap hooked his boots against the table leg, that familiar grin tugging at his mouth. “Well, that’s reason enough to hit the pub, eh? Closest one’s just down the road. First round’s on me.”
You crossed your arms, tone even but not cold. “Thanks, but I’m not much for celebrations.”
Laswell caught the flicker in your expression, the small pull of retreat before it even fully formed. “Go,” she said, voice firm but not unkind. “You’ve earned a drink. Consider it… acclimation.”
A ripple of laughter circled the room, light and easy. Soap shot Ghost a look, the kind that usually preceded trouble. Ghost just tilted his head in silent amusement. Gaz was already half-standing, stretching the stiffness from his shoulders. But, only one man didn’t move.
Price stayed on his spot, arms folded. His gaze was steady beneath the brim of his boonie hat, half-shadowed, unreadable, but heavy enough that you felt it before you even looked his way. He didn’t say a word, only gave a slow shake of his head, as if the idea of unwinding didn’t quite fit in the same sentence as his name.
You tilted your head slightly, curious but not probing. You’d seen men like him before. Commanders who carried the war in their lungs and the silence in their bones.
Soap nudged Ghost with an elbow, voice pitched low but not low enough. “The Captain’s thinking too hard again.”
Laswell caught it too. Her gaze flickered between the two of you, sharp but quiet, the kind of look that read more than either of you wanted to admit.
“Go on, both of you,” she said. “Get a drink. God knows you need it.”
You didn’t argue. The weight of command wasn’t something you wanted to push against, especially not here, not yet. Still, as you turned toward the door, that unsettled feeling lingered – the distinct awareness that Captain Price didn’t quite like you here.
The pub was alive with laughter. It smelled of ale, old wood, and a kind of camaraderie that could only be born from soldiers who’s survived too much together. It was the kind of place where stories were told too loudly, glasses clinked too often, and no one cared about rank for a few stolen hours.
It was everything Price wasn’t.
Soap was halfway through a story, hands carving the air like blades, his Scottish brogue thick with enthusiasm. “…then the bloody goat bolts right through the checkpoint, yeah? Nearly knocked the colonel flat on his arse!”
Gaz groaned, half laughing, half protesting. “That never happened. You’re full of it, Soap!”
“Oh, it did, mate. Ask Ghost!”
Ghost, seated like a silent monument in his corner, didn’t even look up from his glass. “Didn’t happen,” he said flatly, the words muffled beneath his mask.
You were at the bar, a few steps away from the chaos, elbows resting on the counter. The black bandana across your forehead caught the amber light of the hanging lamps, a faint gleam cutting across the edge of your cheekbone. You weren’t smiling, but your expression wasn’t cold either. You were used to noise like this, used to rooms full of soldiers trying to forget.
Behind you, Soap’s laughter cut through the clamor again, loud and reckless. You let it wash over you as you swirled the amber liquid in your glass – whiskey, neat. Price sat three seats down, the pub light flickering across his face in warm and uneven tones – the weathered lines around his eyes, and the slight twitch of his jaw when Soap got too loud. He hadn’t said much since you arrived. Not to you, not to anyone.
His fingers curled loosely around his glass, knuckles brushed with scars, and the faint smell of smoke still clung to his jacket. A cigar waited behind his ear, unlit. Always unlit until the moment demanded it.
The clinking of glasses faded for a moment as you exhaled, soft and almost imperceptible. The bartender poured another round down the counter, sliding a glass your way. You lifted it in silent thanks, and without meaning to, your eyes flicked toward Price. He raised his own glass slightly, a subtle acknowledgment.
Then Soap’s laughter rang out again, pulling the room back into motion, and whatever that fleeting moment was between you and the captain disappeared into the hum of the night. You turned, grabbing the opportunity to at least acquaint yourself with the rest, starting with the captain.
“You always this quiet, Captain?” your voice slipped through the hum of laughter like the edge of a blade, but sharp enough to draw attention if he wasn’t careful.
Price didn’t turn. The whiskey glass caught the light as he rolled it in his hand, eyes fixed somewhere past the rim. “When I’ve got nothing worth saying,” he murmured, voice low, gravel pressed into syllables.
You smirked into your drink, the amber liquid trembling slightly as you swirled it. “That’s one way to hide behind mystery.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile and disapproval. He finally looked at you then, head tilting just enough that the light broke over his face. “And you?” he asked quietly. “Always need the room to know you’re in it?”
You met his gaze without hesitation. “Someone has to keep things interesting.”
The answer hung between you, almost playful. But there was something else under it, something neither of you wanted to name. You were testing for weight – his, yours, and the invisible line between command and connection.
He huffed a quiet sound that might’ve been a laugh, or just air escaping from behind all that restraint. For a moment, your gazes held with challenge meeting silence, and pride meeting patience. Then he looked away, breaking it like it was nothing. Like you hadn’t just pulled a thread you didn’t even know was there.
“You’ll learn, soldier,” he said, voice steady as the tide. “Not every battle needs winning.”
You smiled faintly, the same wry curve that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Who said I was losing?”
That struck something.
It was subtle, but you saw the slight twitch in his jaw, the way the muscle there flexed before he turned his face away again. The glass in his hand was set down a little harder than it needed to be, the faint clink swallowed by the noise around you. You could feel the tension coil into something heavier.
Price finally looked at you again, just briefly, his gaze unreadable beneath the brim of his cap. The air between you had shifted, charged in a way that left the taste of steel on your tongue.
You tilted your head, just slightly, breaking the silence first. “Didn’t peg you for the type to flinch from a little banter, Captain.”
His silence said more than anything he could’ve thrown back at you. He finished his drink in one motion, the glass clinking softly against the bar, and stood without another word. No glance, no nod. Just the scrape of his boots as he pushed off the stool and walked out. You watched him go, the faint curl of your smile fading into something unreadable. Maybe you’d pushed too far. Maybe you just didn’t like how much that bothered you.
Price stepped out into the chill night air, the door of the pub swinging shut behind him, muffling the laughter within. He struck a lighter and lit his cigar, the brief flare of orange tracing across the sharp lines of his face. The smoke curled upward, lazy and unhurried, the glow from the tip cutting through the dark like a pulse. He leaned back against the brick wall, the weight of command and something heavier sitting square in his chest.
He was irritated. He’d admit that much. Not just at the way you talked to him, but at the way you got to him. The nerve of it, the push-and-pull you seemed to understand instinctively. The way you looked right through his silence like it wasn’t armor but a challenge.
The door creaked open again, and Laswell stepped out, arms folded, her breath fogging in the cold.
“John, you all right?” she asked.
Price didn’t answer right away. He took another pull from his cigar, the smoke burning low in his lungs before he exhaled into the cold. “She’s gonna be a headache,” he muttered finally. “Legend or not, that attitude’s gonna get her shot someday.”
Laswell smirked, leaning beside him. “Maybe,” she said. “But she’s also the reason a dozen people didn’t get shot the last time I sent her in.”
Price grunted, half a laugh, and scoffed. “Still think she’s dangerous.”
“She is,” Laswell admitted, the smirk fading into something quieter. “But not in the way you think.”
He glanced her way, brow raised beneath the brim of his cap.
“She flirts and it doesn’t mean anything, John,” she said softly. “You know that kind of soldier. You’ve been that kind of soldier.”
He didn’t respond and just stared off into the dark, watching the smoke drift like ghosts in the night. The words hit, and they hit deep. He’d seen that look before, the smile that was really a shield, and the teasing tone that covered the cracks in a soul too used to blood and silence. For some reason, he felt the irritation tangling with something quieter, something he didn’t want to name.
The memory of your voice lingered, soft but sharp in the back of his mind.
“Who said I was losing?”
He took another drag, jaw tightening, the smoke leaving his lips slow and steady. He couldn’t shake the sound of your voice, and the glint in your eye when you looked at him like you’d already seen what kind of man he was.
Price’s lips pressed into a hard line, his silence louder than any retort. Laswell’s words had found their mark, and she knew it.
“You don’t have to like her,” she said, stepping back. “Just don’t underestimate what that attitude hides.”
“She’s insubordinate,” Price muttered, smoke cutting through his words. “Cocky. Reckless. And you want me to trust her with my men>”
Laswell’s brow lifted. “You think she’s reckless because she doesn’t follow your lead.”
He scoffed quietly, but the tension in his jaw didn’t ease. “Bloody miracle she’s lasted this long.”
“Coming from the man who never learned when to stop,” Laswell said, a hint of a smile tugging at her mouth.
That earned a small, humorless chuckle from Price. “Difference is, I don’t flirt my way through missions.”
Laswell folded her arms, unbothered by the bite in his tone. “That’s just how she copes,” she said, voice even. “That’s Fox for you.”
Price’s eyes narrowed through the thin veil of smoke. “Then she’s coping too damn well.”
Laswell tilted her head, the corner of her mouth twitching. “You sure that’s the problem?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The silence said enough. The bitter taste on his tongue wasn’t from the cigar anymore. It was something else that he couldn’t pin down, and that unsettled him more than he’d ever admit. That shut him up as the night hummed with the distant thrum of traffic, the cold pressing in close. The air smelled faintly of smoke and rain.
Finally, Laswell exhaled, slow and deliberate. “Let it go for tonight, John. She’s not the enemy.”
Price didn’t respond. His silence said what his words couldn’t, but knowing didn’t stop the unease clawing at him. Because somewhere between the quiet defiance in your tone and the way you’d looked at him across that bar, something had shifted that he couldn’t quite place.