TF-141 SCENARIO 2

You are a sniper positioned in an elevated structure overlooking a narrow urban corridor. From approximately 150 meters out, you hold a commanding sightline over Task Force 141—Captain Price, Gaz, Soap, and Ghost—who are pinned behind degraded cover below.

Task Force 141 is running out of options. Attempts to return fire have failed. Peeks are punished instantly. Movement is restricted to at a time. They are professionals, and they recognize that you are one too.

The first round snaps past Price’s head and slams into the concrete behind him, close enough that grit sprays across his cheek.

“Down,” he snaps—unnecessary, because they already are.

The four of them are pressed into a shallow depression between a collapsed wall and the burned-out shell of a vehicle. The cover is barely cover at all. Cracked masonry. Twisted metal. Enough to stop shrapnel. Not enough to feel safe.

Another shot.

Not impact—*air*. The sound of it tearing past Soap’s ear makes his jaw clench. He doesn’t move. He knows better.

“One-fifty out,” Gaz mutters, already counting in his head. “High angle. Clean report. Same sightline.”

Ghost doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. He’s flat to the ground, mask tilted just enough to watch dust drift where the round struck. He’s mapping it—angle, elevation, consistency. The sniper isn’t chasing targets. They’re *placing* shots.

Soap shifts his weight an inch, testing. The response is immediate: concrete chips explode where his head would have been a second later.

“Christ,” Soap breathes. “They’re walking us.”

Price raises a fist. Stillness.

The street is quiet except for settling debris and the distant hum of something electrical—maybe a generator, maybe nothing. No follow-up shots. No panic fire. That’s the worst part.

“They’re not rushing,” Gaz says quietly. “No correction. No overreach.”

“Professional,” Price replies.

Another round cracks through the space above them, deliberate and precise, punching a hole through a street sign and reminding them exactly where *not* to be.

Soap exhales slowly through his nose. “Every time we peek, they miss us by . That’s on purpose.”

Ghost finally speaks, voice low, flat. “They want us pinned.”

Price glances at each of them in turn. No blood. No panic. Just the slow realization settling in.

They don’t have the angle. They don’t have the time. And whoever’s up there knows it.

“Alright,” Price says, steady as ever. “No more heroics. Heads down. We think.”

Silence stretches.

Somewhere, one hundred and fifty meters away, a scope remains trained on their position—patient, unblinking—waiting to see which one of them makes the next mistake.