A firm hand jolted Sable from the depths of sleep, pulling her back to reality. Her pulse spiked as she blinked groggily, her vision struggling to focus in the dim, flickering light. Shadows danced across the room, distorted by the glow of a nearby oil lamp.

Towering over her, a figure clad in dark tactical gear loomed, his skull-patterned balaclava stark against the gloom. Ghost. His presence was unmistakable—the gravelly voice, the imposing stance, the aura of someone who had seen too much and survived it all.

"You're up, Sergeant," he said, his tone edged with urgency.

Sable pushed herself upright, muscles stiff from too many restless nights on the move. Her breath hitched as the weight of exhaustion clung to her like a second skin.

Ghost didn't wait for pleasantries. He straightened, adjusting the strap of his rifle. "We're moving out. London. Captain Price wants recon. Wheels up in ten."

The words sent a surge of adrenaline through her system, shoving away the last remnants of sleep. London. Price. The mission wasn't over—it was only beginning.

SCENEBREAK

Steam clung to Sable's skin as she stepped out of the shower, droplets catching the sunlight as they trailed down her arms. Wrapping a towel around herself, she pushed open the door and stepped outside, the warm afternoon air wrapping around her like a second skin. The sharp scent of motor oil and fresh-cut grass filled her lungs as her gaze landed on a familiar sight—her older brother, Gojo, standing near a sleek black car, deep in conversation with Gaz and Soap.

Soap was the first to notice her. His easygoing grin widened as he raised a hand in greeting. "Ah, there you are, Sergeant," he said, voice laced with amusement as he extended a hand toward her.

Sable hesitated, her fingers twitching at her side. She wasn't looking at Soap—her attention had shifted to Gojo, who had gone utterly still. Though the blindfold concealed his eyes, she could still feel the weight of his gaze, sharp as a knife even beneath the fabric. His presence was unreadable, yet commanding, and it sent a shiver through her already-damp skin.

Soap's hand remained outstretched, his expression expectant. But in that moment, it wasn't just a simple greeting anymore. It was a shift—a pause before something unspoken settled between them all.

Gojo dipped his head slightly, a knowing smile playing at his lips. "Sister, I see you're up early," he mused, his tone light yet teasing. "Did the Lieutenant tell you we're heading to London?"

Sable nodded, brushing a strand of damp hair from her face.

Gojo chuckled, the sound rich and effortless. His gaze swept over the group before returning to her. "Quite the team you've got here, sis," he remarked, his voice laced with something between admiration and amusement. Then, with a firm yet warm gesture, he clapped a hand on her shoulder. "I'm proud of you."

The weight of his words settled between them, steady and unwavering. For all of Gojo's usual carefree nature, there was sincerity in his voice—one that made Sable's chest tighten just slightly before she masked it with a small nod.

 "Let's go. I'm sure Price would appreciate if we're not late," he said, his voice carrying the weight of a man who'd known too many missed opportunities.

They all piled into the van—a rusted, cream-colored Volkswagen with mismatched hubcaps and the lingering scent of fast food and cigarettes. Sable found herself sitting beside Ghost, not that she minded. The man radiated warmth like a woodstove in winter, his leather jacket creaking softly with each breath. His calloused fingers drummed an impatient rhythm against his knee while rain began to streak the windows, transforming the world outside into a watercolor painting of grays and blues.

The engine sputtered to life, protesting with a metallic whine before settling into a hesitant purr. Through the rearview mirror, Sable caught the driver's eyes—dark and knowing, as if he understood exactly what waited for them at their destination.

SCENEBREAK

Soon enough, the van rolled to a stop outside Heathrow's Terminal 3, where patches of morning fog still clung to the tarmac. Captain Price waited beneath the overhang, a military-straight silhouette against the airport's glass façade. His weathered face remained impassive, though his eyes—sharp as a falcon's—tracked their approach with practiced vigilance.

Soap smiled and nudged Sable with his elbow, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Exciting, eh?" The corner of his mouth quirked upward, revealing a chipped incisor—a souvenir from some forgotten skirmish. "First time meeting the old man in person. Don't worry, his bark is worse than his bite... most days."

As they climbed out of the van, the wind carried the distinct odor of jet fuel and rain-soaked concrete. Sable adjusted her pack, feeling the weight of what lay ahead settling between her shoulder blades.

Gojo nudged her shoulder with his own, his azure eyes gleaming behind silver-rimmed glasses. "Nervous, sister? You shouldn't be. These men are kind beneath their scars and swagger," he murmured, voice low enough that only she could hear. "Trust me—they'll love you." His usually playful demeanor had softened, revealing a rare moment of genuine reassurance. A strand of his white hair caught in the breeze, and he tucked it behind his ear with a fluid motion that spoke of unconscious grace. The slight curve of his lips held a promise that somehow made the churning in Sable's stomach subside.

Captain Price offered a hand, his palm calloused from decades of fieldwork and gun grips. "Ms. Sable, it is an honor to have you with us," he said, his voice a gravelly rumble that carried the weight of command. His thick mustache twitched slightly—the closest thing to a smile his weathered face seemed capable of producing. "My name is Captain Price, and I'm sure you've met my group, Task Force 141." His eyes, the color of steel under overcast skies, assessed her with measured calculation, looking for strengths and weaknesses with equal interest. The insignia on his beret caught the light as he inclined his head slightly, a gesture of respect that seemed both practiced and genuine.

Sable nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I have. They're nice," she said, smiling softly, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. There was something about the Captain's direct manner that inspired confidence, a steadiness that promised solid ground in the chaos ahead.

Price nodded back, a small smile emerging beneath his ginger beard like sunrise breaking through storm clouds. "Now, here's the deal," he said, turning to point behind him at a massive digital display. The screen showed sleek American missiles, their titanium casings gleaming under harsh lighting. "These Russian punks got their claws into these babies. We stole them back just before takeoff, but they're coming for us—all of us." His finger traced the trajectory line on the screen, each movement deliberate as clockwork. The reflection of the display cast his face in a blue glow, highlighting the web of fine lines around his eyes—each one earned through years of similar briefings, similar stakes.

The terminal around them hummed with the white noise of civilian travel, oblivious passengers rolling suitcases past this small group planning to save them all from threats they'd never know existed.