mrozzoosstuff

[mrozzoosstuff]

𖥻 𝗢𝟱 ┆𝙁𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩 𝙄𝙢𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙂𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙨 ★ ₊ ˚⟡

𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐋 ➠ ᴄᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴜᴛʏ

/̵͇̿̿/’̿’̿ ̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ༄

NOVI SAD, SERBIA

Outskirts, Old Abandoned Paper Factory

18:49

The abandoned paper factory stood like a skeleton of the past—its brick bones chipped and blackened by decades of rain, fire, and silence. Once a proud artery of the outskirts' industrial lifeblood, it now sagged beneath the weight of war's aftermath. The sign above the main entrance still clung on by rusted bolts, the faded lettering barely readable through layers of soot and peeling paint.

The factory's tall smokestacks, long since cold, jutted into the sky like broken fingers. Ivy and wire tangled up the walls, crawling over shattered windows and blown-out frames. Inside, the air was thick with dust and forgotten things. Stacks of brittle papers, scorched and water-stained, littered the floor—remnants of production lines that hadn’t moved in years.

Once a place where the workers burned their lives away, working till their hands were falling off—now a place where gangs, dealers, or teenagers threw parties.

Technically, the place was shut down. Secured. Marked as an unwanted scar on the town that everyone would rather forget was there or ever even existed.

But at this exact moment, there was no party in there.

And it was safe to say that everything had gone to shit.

“Soap! Behind cover! Now!” A gruff British voice cut through the sound of bullets, explosions, and screaming. Captain John Price pressed his back against the brick wall, dodging bullets that were a little too close for his liking.

It was supposed to be a simple mission. Get in, stop the transaction, get the NATO guns, and go back to HQ. Easy and quick. In and out in thirty minutes.

He couldn't have been more wrong.

They expected the locals to surrender immediately and the mercs to be far less experienced. But both groups had more balls than they thought. So now, they had local thieves, and a bunch of French mercenaries on their backs, shooting at them.

And no Gaz or the new addition in sight.

Just great.

Finally, the Scottish sergeant got to cover, pressing himself against the wall next to his captain. His chest rose and fell at a rapid pace. His hand tightly gripped the gun, checking the magazine after a not-so-fun bullet exchange with the enemy.

"What the fuck, Cap?! This was supposed to be quick and peaceful!" Soap yelled at his captain through the storm of bullets flying around.

"Well, it ain’t. Suck it up, aye?" the older man growled, shaking his head with a clenched jaw. He didn't like the situation any more than the Scottish man did.

Soap only rolled his eyes but didn't shoot back with a sarcastic remark, knowing it wasn’t exactly the best time for that. "Where are Gaz and the Russian?"

"I don't know." Price shook his head with a deep sigh. They were supposed to be here already. It was worrying. In his mind, there could be a few reasons why they weren’t here yet.

One, they ran into trouble on the way and it slowed them down.

Two, the new girl caused some problems.

Three, their helicopter is running late.

There was also the possibility that they were surprised on the way and were no longer on their way. But that’s something the captain didn’t even want to think about.

"The snipers are eliminated. You need backup on the ground?" A deep British voice rang out in both earpieces. Ghost sat on the roof of the building next to the factory, his sniper rifle still in hand, targeting the snipers on the opposite side.

"It would be nice if you joined the party, Lt." Soap answered, reloading his rifle.

"Copy that. On my way." The masked man mumbled into the earpiece. Ghost gathered his sniper rifle and headed down to the factory to help his team.

Soap and Price looked at each other. Gripping their guns, they exchanged a short nod, preparing to jump out of cover and finish this mission.

Because frankly, it was starting to get on their nerves.

Soap leaned the muzzle of his rifle around the corner of the wall, shooting down two men on the opposite side. Right after, he signaled his captain, and they both jumped out of cover, moving down the hall of the factory. They managed to eliminate a few other threats as they moved through the temporary warzone in sync.

They stopped by the wall at another turn in the hallway. Glancing down, they saw three men, all in black gear and fully armed, a small French flag on their sleeves. Price looked at his sergeant and gave a faint nod toward the other side of the hall where there was a small space that divided two corridors. It wasn't big, but enough to give them the advantage and provide cover.

Soap, moving quickly and quietly, managed to get to the other side without being seen, pressing his back into the wall while Price stayed by the corner. They both raised their rifles, getting into position to take out the French mercenaries without getting hurt themselves. With one last glance at each other, their eyes locked on the men about ten meters away.

Before they could pull the trigger, a faint tapping sound stopped them. At the same time, they looked down at the ground where the source of the sound was rolling by and stopping a meter away from them. Their heads snapped up, eyes wide.

"Grenade!"

Soap didn’t think—just sprinted, scooped it up, and hurled it back, bullets snapping past him. He dove behind the wall with Price just as the explosion ripped through the hall, a hot blast of smoke and debris chasing them.

The shots and explosions in the background died down as a dark cloud of smoke filled the air, burning their lungs. Price and Soap leaned against the wall, their chests rising and falling quickly as they coughed.

"You alright?" the captain breathed out, looking at the sergeant next to him.

"I’ll live," the Scot nodded, resting his head back against the wall and glancing quickly at Price. "You?"

"Fine."

A faint sound of footsteps made them snap back into focus, heads whipping toward the source. Gripping their rifles tighter, they pushed off the wall and moved slowly toward the sound.

They stopped, frozen for a moment, as they were met with a gun pointed right at them.

Before them stood a woman. A black bandana hooked over her nose hid the lower part of her face, but her dark brown eyes stared back at them—cold and unreadable. White hair tied back into a secure low bun contrasted against the dark gear and the heavy aura floating around her. But when their eyes locked on the small Russian flag sewn into the top corner of her vest, it clicked.

Nikova Dragunova. Lynx.

The new one.

And she was pointing a gun at them.

How great.

So they stood there for a minute. Guns raised at each other. No words, no sound. Just an eye battle.

From behind her, in slow steps and rifle tightly in hand, walked in Gaz. His face relaxed faintly at the sight of his teammates, but immediately went back to neutral as he realized what was happening in front of him.

"Lynx..." he started slowly, his eyes jumping between the two men and the Russian girl. "This is Captain Price and Sergeant MacTavish. They're with us."

She knew who they were. She wasn’t stupid.

She’d memorized their faces from the files the night before. They hadn’t pulled the trigger. Neither had she.

Didn’t mean she trusted them. Why should she? First time seeing them. First time standing this close. And they had their guns pointed right back at her.

It was safe to say that it wasn’t the best way to introduce yourself, but she wasn’t going to take any chances.

And it seemed that they had exactly the same thought.

Soap looked towards his captain, waiting for any kind of reaction or order. Either to shoot or to put the gun down.

Finally, the captain gave a faint nod, slowly lowering his gun, though he never took his eyes off Nikova. Soap followed through, also lowering his gun.

The Russian woman stood there for a few seconds, not moving a muscle. Her eyes locked with Gaz’s for a split second before returning to the Scot and the captain. Finally, her weapon slowly lowered, but the grip on the rifle was still tight. Like a warning.

"Officer Dragunova. Nice to finally meet you in person." Price started, clearing his throat.

It was weird to hear 'Officer Dragunova' instead of 'Komandir Dragunova', or even just 'Lynx'. That was definitely something she’d have to get used to.

Nikova gave a faint nod, reaching up to her face and letting the black bandana fall around her neck, showing her full face.

The Scottish sergeant cleared his throat, making her brown eyes flick from the captain to him.

"Haye, how you doin’? Soap." He gave a faint smirk, introducing himself. He took a step toward her, lifting his hand for a handshake. "You’re not planning to throw another grenade at us, are you?"

Nikova only responded with a hum, her eyes scanning Soap with a critical gaze.

"Funny." she grumbled stiffly, slowly lifting her hand and accepting the handshake.

Before Soap could shoot back with a sarcastic comment, the earpiece went off.

"Guns are secured. We’re done here." Ghost’s voice appeared in their ears, cutting the momentum short.

"Copy that." The captain answered, nodding at them to follow him as he moved down the hall. "Call Laswell. We’re going back to Viper.”

———————————————————————

𓂃🖊 𝙈𝙍𝙊𝙕𝙕𝙊 𝙎𝙋𝙀𝘼𝙆𝙄𝙉𝙂

HI LOVES ❤️

I'm so sorry for the long wait!

But now that I have summer I plan on quicker upgrades and finishing this before September.

PLEASE COMMENT AND LIKE!

LOVE YOU ALL AND SEE YOU SOON!

[mrozzoosstuff]

[mrozzoosstuff]

I'm so excited to start writing her relationship with TF141 and see how, with time, they start getting closer.

I'm also super excited for you to meet Nikova in full light. She's such a complex character, and her development thru the book is going to be EVERYTHING.

Let me know if you want some kind of 'meet my OC' or to make like 'boards' for her and my other OC's, or with her relationships with TF141.

CHAPTER IS COMING, THANK YOU FOR READING MY BOOK (and if you haven't yet, I highly recommend to check it out – SHATTERED STEEL COD)

LET ME KNOW WHAT OTHER THIS KIND OF THING YOU WOULD WANT TO SEE AND HAVE A NICE DAY LOVES ❤️.

[mrozzoosstuff]

𖥻 𝗢𝟰 ┆𝘽𝙡𝙖𝙙𝙚 𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙗𝙪𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙩 ★ ₊ ˚⟡

𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐋 ➠ ᴄᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴜᴛʏ

/̵͇̿̿/’̿’̿ ̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ༄

NOVI SAD, SERBIA

Outskirts, post-war semi-abandoned area

18:08

The outskirts stretch like a scar along the city’s forgotten edge — a no-man’s land of broken industry and dying neighborhoods.

Crumbling warehouses loom in the mist, their skeletal frames jutting against the gray sky, windows shattered into jagged teeth.

The nearby houses are ghosts of themselves — roofs caved in, walls punched through by years of rot and violence. Faint signs of life linger: a half-burned mattress, fresh spray paint, the glint of a bottle shattered too recently to be ignored. Squatters, gangs, or worse.

Two pairs of boots stomped through the overgrown sidewalks and mud, leaving deep prints in the filth. Quiet steps were the only sound—aside from the low hum of the wind and the distant rustle of some wild animal in the bushes.

With her rifle pressed tightly to her chest, Nikova moved between the ruined houses, Gaz close behind. Her sharp eyes scanned the surroundings, searching for anything suspicious in their path. They were about 1.5 kilometers west of the transaction site—roughly ten minutes out.

The silence in her earpiece was both a relief and a concern. Gaz hadn’t spoken since the drop, and neither had Laswell. The agent hadn’t linked them to the rest of the team yet—they weren’t close enough.

At least it gave her a moment of quiet to sort her thoughts.

Gaz followed roughly three meters behind, rifle gripped tightly. His eyes swept over the area, then landed on Nikova’s back—his gaze lingering on the black bulletproof vest and the tightly tied silver hair.

“Something on your mind, Sergeant?” Nikova mumbled without turning, feeling the weight of his stare.

“Nah,” his voice crackled in her earpiece, thick with his British accent. “Just trying to figure you out, Lynx.”

She responded with something between a hum and a scoff. Not quite an answer—but close enough for Gaz to work with.

He opened his mouth to break the silence again, but the faint sound of footsteps from the north cut him off.

Both of them snapped their heads toward the noise. Nikova raised her rifle and silently moved toward it, Gaz just behind her.

Stopping beside a large container, she carefully peeked around its edge. About thirty meters ahead, two men stood armed with machine guns. Robbers, most likely—judging by their casual gait, lack of armor, and loose posture. It was clear they weren’t expecting trouble here.

Gaz pressed himself to the opposite side of the container and peeked out as well.

“All right. You take the one on the right, I’ll—” He turned to look at Nikova, but was met with empty air. She was gone.

“Fuckin’ hell.”

He clenched his jaw, shutting his eyes for a second as he tried to process her vanishing act. With a steadying breath, he raised his rifle and leaned halfway out of cover, finger hovering over the trigger.

Before he could fire, one of the men collapsed face-first into the mud—a knife handle protruding from the back of his skull.

The second man reacted instantly, whipping his gun around in a panic, searching for the source.

Before he could shout, another blade sailed through the air and embedded itself in his temple. His gun hit the ground with a dull thud, followed by his body.

Gaz lowered his rifle and cautiously stepped out from behind the container. His eyes darted between the corpses and the shadows, unsure what to expect.

From the far side of the container, Nikova emerged—rifle now slung over her shoulder. She walked slowly toward the bodies and, with a sharp yank, pulled the knife from the first man's skull, wiping the blood clean against her thigh.

“You could’ve taken the shot. Or at least a ‘I got it’ would’ve been nice,” Gaz muttered as he approached, irritation coloring his voice.

“Shot’s too loud. Knife? Quick and silent. Better, yes?” Nikova replied, pulling the second blade from the other man's head and slipping it back into the strap on her thigh.

She glanced at him briefly, then grabbed her rifle again and nodded forward. No words. Just motion.

Without waiting for a response, she started walking again.

With a deep breath, Gaz raised his rifle and followed her toward the exchange site.

——————————————————————

[mrozzoosstuff]

𖥻 𝗢𝟯 ┆ 𝙁𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩 𝙍𝙞𝙙𝙚, 𝙁𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩 𝙗𝙖𝙗𝙮𝙨𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧 ★ ₊ ˚⟡

𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐋 ➠ ᴄᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴜᴛʏ

/̵͇̿̿/'̿'̿ ̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ༄

BUDAPEST, HOLLAND

Outskirts of Budapest, side private airport

17:18

The air stung with exhaust and early evening wind as Nikova stepped out of the cab. Concrete stretched wide and empty before her, painted orange-gold by the setting sun.

A lone helicopter sat humming near the edge of the private airstrip, blades turning slow and heavy. It looked too quiet. Too still.

She rested one hand in the pocket of her black cargo pants; the other gripped the worn strap of her duffle bag. One bag. That was all she had left of a life she'd torn to shreds herself. Her hair was pinned carefully into a low, tight bun, adding to the sense of déjà vu.

The pilot waved her forward without a word. She glanced over her shoulder at the cab as it disappeared down the road, then turned back to the helicopter. With slow steps, she walked toward it.

Metal groaned as she stepped into the chopper. It smelled like oil and steel-familiar. Comforting, in a twisted way.

As soon as she stepped inside, she felt a set of eyes fix on her. She wasn't alone.

Lifting her gaze, she met the eyes of the man seated along the wall of the helicopter.

She recognized him from intel files: Sergeant Kyle Garrick.

He sat with a rifle resting on his lap, a gloved finger tapping against the side of the weapon. Dark skin, darker eyes, staring at her with quiet curiosity. Black, almost buzzed curls were hidden under a cap.

Full gear-and on his beige vest, a flag. The Union Jack.

So. They sent a babysitter. How nice of them.

Without a word, she dropped the duffle bag to the floor and took a seat on the bench against the wall.

Gaz's eyes lingered on her face, then her hair, noting that yes, it really was white-and not just a terrible quality picture. Then his gaze dropped to her vest, pausing slightly on the Russian flag sewn into the top-right corner of her black bulletproof vest.

"You Lynx?" he finally broke the silence, faintly raising his eyebrows. His voice was low, casual. The tapping stopped.

After a beat, she lifted her brown, unreadable eyes to meet his again.

"Depends who's asking."

Her voice rang through the cabin, the deep accent confirming her origins further.

The man gave a nod, the corner of his mouth curling into a faint smile. He sat up, offering a hand.

"Sergeant Kyle Garrick. Gaz."

Nikova's gaze fell on his outstretched hand, then rose to meet his eyes. She slowly took it, firm and brief.

"Good to have you."

It almost sounded like he meant it.

The helicopter door slammed shut, and with a jolt, they lifted into the sky.

═══════════════════════

The city below shrank, dissolving into blocks of grey and scattered light. Nikova sat silent, arms crossed, watching the skyline disappear.

Gaz handed her a small black earpiece and comms unit.

"Laswell'll fill you in."

Nikova looked up from the rifle on her lap. She took the set wordlessly, clipping it in place with practiced ease. Déjà vu-again.

The comms clicked alive, and Laswell's voice came through the earpiece.

"Lynx, Gaz-you're en route to a confirmed arms exchange on the outskirts of Novi Sad. Intel shows a local paramilitary group moving stolen NATO weapons. Price and the others are already inside the perimeter. You'll land on the east side-cover their extraction."

Nikova leaned back, eyes half-lidded. Her brain processed fast, even if her face didn't move. Weapons deal. Hostile territory. Urban sprawl. Minimal recon.

Just how she liked it.

"Welcome to the team, Nikova," Laswell added, her voice calm, unreadable. "It's time to shine."

Nikova didn't reply. She didn't have to.

Gaz glanced sideways at her.

"You always this talkative?"

She smirked. Just slightly.

"Only when it matters."

He laughed quietly-not mocking. More like he was... surprised.

"I'll take that as a good sign," he muttered, checking his mag.

They flew in silence after that. A comfortable one. No need for filler.

As the city gave way to dirt roads and broken fields, Laswell's voice returned, sharper now.

"Approaching drop zone. Ground team is engaging. Expect resistance."

The doors unlocked with a mechanical clank. Cold wind howled in. The hum of gunfire could be heard now-distant, like thunder at the edge of a storm.

Nikova stood without hesitation, gripping her rifle. She stepped toward the door of the helicopter, Gaz beside her.

"Ready?" he asked, adjusting his cap and checking his gun one last time.

She looked at him-expression unreadable. Then, the faintest curve of her lips.

She turned back toward the open sky, light flashing in both their faces. Reaching up to the collar of her tactical shirt, she pulled up the black bandana around her neck, hooking it over her nose to cover the lower half of her face.

"Всегда."

——————————————————————

[mrozzoosstuff]

𖥻 𝗢𝟮 ┆𝘽𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝘽𝙧𝙞𝙙𝙜𝙚𝙨 ★ ₊ ˚⟡

𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐋 ➠ ᴄᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴜᴛʏ

/̵͇̿̿/'̿'̿ ̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ༄

BUDAPEST, HUNGARY

Nikova's safe house/ momentary apartment.

20:47

Cold evening winds broke through the old windows, letting the cold air fill the apartment. The place was a mess. But it was an organized mess. The small lamp at the table was the only source of light, but it was enough to illuminate the apartment.

It was small, barely enough room to move comfortably, but it didn't need to be anything more. The furniture was minimal and worn-out, nothing extravagant. An old mattress with protruding springs was pushed against the wall in the corner and a small desk by the window with a pile of files.

Some were open. Some were closed. Others were classified or so old that it could fall apart in your hands.

Old wooden chair cracked under her as she sat down by the desk, looking through the files scattered all around her.

She flicked the cigarette above the ashtray, watching as the embers glow before taking a long drag.

The folder that the CIA agent gave her earlier that day lay open before her, as well as the files that Vera sent her.

A picture of Captain John Price - the leader of the Task Force - was pinned to the top of the portfolio. Sharp eyes and the data from the file almost commanded respect. A leader - but nothing Nikova hasn't seen in military men before. Yet something about him made more than just another cog in the machine.

Then, there was Sergeant 'Soap' MacTavish.

God. What a stupid callsign.

Sniper. Demolitions. That was his thing. And the stupid Mohawk on his head definitely gives him the edge. Looking at the picture, she couldn't decide if he looked like a soldier who've seen too much or a clown. Probably both. But everyone had a way to coping meganism. His was just being super annoying.

Lieutenant 'Ghost' Riley. The files about him reflected the same cold that was in his eyes through the hole of his skull mask.

Why do you have a skull mask if you call yourself 'Ghost'?

The shadow of the group. Dark and detached one. Again, nothing you haven't seen before in the military.

In the end, there was Sergeant Garrick. Quiet and professional. And the only one with a somewhat normal callsign. Ex-police turned SAS under Captain Price's wing. Interesting.

Adding up: a bunch of Brits with guns.

She took another drag from the cigarette, exhaling slowly.

Nikova's eyes wandered to the picture of Nikolai, staring with a clenched jaw like it was a blinking battle. Like she was expecting that the man in the picture would suddenly speak to her.

Did he know?

The offer was fair. Join the British team under the rank of warrant officer and get back in the real game.

Only the real game was a dangerous game. Especially with a target on your back and a not so pastel colored past.

Did she actually want it?

She'd always worked alone. But that life on the run had started to wear thin. The calls in the middle of the night. The constant looking over her shoulder. She was tired of running. And the file had confirmed it - this Task Force... they were something different. Laswell had offered her a way out. A chance to belong to something, even if it was just a brief escape from the chaos. The idea of it had felt distant, absurd even, but now, after reading through all this, it didn't seem like such a bad idea.

With a last drag, she stomped out the cigarette, watching as ashes settle in the glass tray.

She picked out a small note from the file given from the blonde CIA, her eyes flicking over the paper once again. A silent debate.

'Budapest side airport. Tomorrow at 17:00. Take the deal, Lynx.

~Kate.'

Nikova leaned back in the chair that cracked under the movement. Closing her eyes for a brief second and taking a deep breath, trying to come up with her next move.

Standing up from the chair, she closed the files on the desk and walked over to the small suitcase tucked away behind the bathroom door. Opening the case, she took out a black tactical shirt.

On the left side of the chest was a velcro patch.

'Komandir Dragunova'

Her fingers brushed over the patch, like she was making sure it was still there. An old symbol of the life that ended. A wave of grief and nostalgia hit her hard, staring at the old patch. But what was it really worth now?

In a swift swipe, she tore out the velcro patch and threw it back to the suitcase. Like a piece of past she wanted to throw and lock away, even though she knew it didn't work like that.

She took the shirt with her and swiped the small note from the table, pushing it into her pocket.

What else did she have to lose anyway?

[mrozzoosstuff]

𖥻 𝗢𝟭 ┆𝙂𝙝𝙤𝙨𝙩𝙨 𝙙𝙤𝙣𝙩 𝙙𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙠 𝙘𝙤𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙚 ★ ₊ ˚⟡

𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐋 ➠ ᴄᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴜᴛʏ

/̵͇̿̿/'̿'̿ ̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ༄

HEREFORD, UK

Task Force 141 Base - "Fort Viper"

12:26

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.

"You're all here. Good."

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-"

Silence.

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."

BUDAPEST, HUNGARY

'Nap és kávé'- Coffee shop

09:48

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."

"You're hard to find."

"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."

Laswell didn't deny it.

"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."

"Neither do they."

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.

Nikolai Belinski.

Nikova's eyes narrowed.

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.)

[mrozzoosstuff]

⌗ ┆𝙋𝙍𝙊𝙇𝙊𝙂𝙐𝙀 ★ ₊ ˚⟡

Call of duty fanfic

/̵͇̿̿/'̿'̿ ̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ༄

BUDAPEST, HUNGARY

23:43

The city was quiet, save for the hum of traffic and the occasional shout from drunks wandering the wet streets. A light rain drizzled over Budapest, making the neon lights smear against the dump streets. The alleys were dark and cold, but that's what you expect from that part of the city. The part where the gangs and thieves rule and where drugs and guns are the main attraction.

In the darkness, there were quiet steps through the puddles on the dirty floor. Silent like a mouse.

Nikova adjusted the sting of snow-white hair back under the black cap under the hood of her hoodie. Water started to soak thru her worn-out combat boots, but that wasn't on her mind right now.

Right now, the most important thing is the assignment.

Stopping at the end of the roof of one of the buildings, she set down her backpack on the floor and crouched down by the small brick wall by the end of the roof. She pulled out her trusted sniper rifle, a lovely black AI AT308 with a suppressor, setting it up to do what she came here to do.

Through the scope of the rifle, she looked down at the small window of the building opposite from her. Dominik Hadik. Your typical gangster from the wrong side of the town. His name was known among the thief society.

People talking about you in that way can be good and bad. It can put you high in the hierarchy of this world... or it can also put a target on your back. Or both.

That's what is happening to Hadik. And that's what happened to Nikova.

Thru the small window, there was the target. Getting hot with some prostitute. None of his men were around, which was a good sign. It will be cleaner.

With her halfway-gloved pointing finger, she looked through the scope, adjusting the rifle until she got a perfect shot at the back of the man's head. Gently squinting her eyes, she placed her pointer finger on the trigger but didn't pull it just yet.

"Давай, леди. Отойди немного в сторону." Nikova mumbled to herself under her breath, watching what was happening inside the room through the rifle scope. (Come on, lady. Move a bit to the side.)

The girl he was with was really close to him. Too close for a clean shot. Her assignment was to eliminate Hadik, not some young girl with him.

That girl didn't deserve it.

She looked young. A young girl from the wrong side of the town, trying to survive by sleeping with gang members. A bit sad, but that's life.

After a few minutes, the girl stood up from the man's lap, walking across the room with her back to the window.

And that was the moment.

As the girl turned back towards Hadik, the small window shattered as a bullet flew thru the glass and straight at the target's forehead. The now dead body stood still for a moment and then fell forward on the couch and then down on the floor. The nice, expensive cushion of the couch and the wooden floor were now painted red from the hole in his head, leaving a trace of blood all over the room.

The girl stopped frozen in the middle of the room, staring down in horror at the sight before her. After a few seconds, she woke up from the trance and let out a panicked scream.

From the rooftop, Nikova straightened up, looking down through the broken window where her target fell to the ground, no longer breathing. She stood up slowly and started to pack her things back into the backpack. She put the rifle back inside and zipped up.

The job was done.

She threw the backpack on her back and started to get down from the roof, walking down the fire staircase. She kept her head down under the hood and her cap. Down enough for no one to see her face, but still enough for her to see the surroundings.

As she started to walk down the dark alleys again, in the corner of her eyes she saw it. A dark shadow by the wall of the building.

Her body snapped in the direction of the shadow with her pistol by her side in a tight grip. As she turned towards the dark figure, there was no one there. Just a wall. Plain, with nobody there.

Nikova stared at the spot for a few seconds, slowly putting her gun back in place. She quickly scanned the small alley, and in confident but slow steps, she returned to her walk. Yet she couldn't shake off the gut feeling that someone was watching her.

That someone, in fact, was there.

And frankly... her instinct was right.

@aceluvsmcr @jfx-99

[mrozzoosstuff]

SHATTERED STEEL

➠ ᴄᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴜᴛʏ FANFICTION

/̵͇̿̿/’̿’̿ ̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ༄

「 𖥠 𝐍.𝐃.𝐃 𖥠 」

«【ꜱᴛᴇᴇʟ ᴅᴏᴇꜱɴ'ᴛ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋ. ɪᴛ ꜱʜᴀᴛᴛᴇʀꜱ】»

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

➥ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ in which a former Spetsnaz operative, long thought dead, finds herself dragged into a war that was never hers, fighting alongside men she never planned to trust—against enemies who never forgot her name. ❧

🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭

🂱 She was never meant to survive. Raised by a system that tore apart her humanity, trained to kill with no remorse, no hesitation. A soldier made of steel and silence. But the world doesn't forget what it creates.

🃁 She walked alone. Fought alone. Survived alone.

🂭 But now, with new faces and new missions, the fight is no longer just hers.

🂾 Now, for the first time, survival is not the only thing on the line.

❝Now you have a choice. You can either keep running, or you can fight ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴜꜱ.❝

❝What makes you think I will fight for you?❝

❝I don't. Nevertheless, you can't outrun it. But you can choose what you're fighting for.❝

CHAPTERS:

⌗ ┆𝙋𝙍𝙊𝙇𝙊𝙂𝙐𝙀 ★ ₊ ˚⟡

𖥻 𝗢𝟭 ┆𝙂𝙝𝙤𝙨𝙩𝙨 𝙙𝙤𝙣𝙩 𝙙𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙠 𝙘𝙤𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙚 ★ ₊ ˚⟡

𖥻 𝗢𝟮 ┆𝘽𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝘽𝙧𝙞𝙙𝙜𝙚𝙨 ★ ₊ ˚⟡

𖥻 𝗢𝟯 ┆ 𝙁𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩 𝙍𝙞𝙙𝙚, 𝙁𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩 𝙗𝙖𝙗𝙮𝙨𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧 ★ ₊ ˚⟡

𖥻 𝗢𝟰 ┆𝘽𝙡𝙖𝙙𝙚 𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙗𝙪𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙩 ★ ₊ ˚⟡

𖥻 𝗢𝟱 ┆𝙁𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩 𝙄𝙢𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙂𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙨 ★ ₊ ˚⟡

ALSO AVAILABLE ON WATTPAD AND AO3

⚠︎ᴅɪꜱᴄʟᴀɪᴍᴇʀ⚠︎

▪︎ English is not my first language (and neither is russian), so there could be mistakes, but there shouldn't be much (I'm trying),

▪︎ Updates are not regular,

▪︎ There is mention of war, murder, death, sexual harassment, knives/guns, etc.

▪︎ The book is edited while writing, so it could be slight changes but nothing major that will interfere with the plot,

▪︎ IT DOES NOT GO ALONG ORIGINAL CAMPAIGNS THIS IS MY PLOT,

▪︎ It's NOT a romance! There may be elements of romance, but it's a tiny bit (more like tension) so please don't ask about it

▪︎ If this book goes well, I'm playing a sequel,

@aceluvsmcr @jfx-99