Squad

The command tent was quiet save for the soft rustling of canvas walls and the distant thumps of artillery echoing in the background. John Wayne sat alone, illuminated by a single hanging lamp that buzzed with faint static. A stack of personnel files lay before him — dossiers of men and women available for reassignment. The ink on his promotion was barely dry, yet here he was: a squad leader at just twenty-two.

Four years in the military.

Three of them were spent in training facilities, boot camps, and simulated exercises.

And the rest — nearly a year — he spent in the rear lines, running logistics, handling paperwork, and delivering supplies. That was, until the ambush.

It had changed everything.

One mission. One night. One act of survival that had turned him from a name on the roster to the "Reaper of Black Hollow" in hushed whispers. He didn't fully understand how or why it had gone the way it did — or why the generals even trusted him now — but they had handed him a chance. A team. A fresh command.

John never expected leadership this early. Yet here he sat, staring at the folders that could shape the future of his squad — and maybe this entire war.

He flipped one open absently, then froze.

His eyes locked on a name.

Price, John.

The breath caught in his throat.

He flipped again.

MacTavish, John (Soap).

Again.

Riley, Simon (Ghost).

And again.

Nikolai.

"What the hell…?" he whispered.

These names — these legends — weren't supposed to be here. Not in this world. Not in his world.

Then the memory returned like a thunderclap.

Eight years ago, when he first awoke in this strange world as a ten-year-old boy, he had received a letter. Delivered by the secretary of God, as absurd as that sounded now. The divine message had said: "This world has been made from pieces — fragments of fiction, reality, fantasy. A world not just fast and furious… but infinitely complex. You may recognize a few faces. Use them well."

Back then, it made little sense. A vague prophecy from a being beyond comprehension.

But now… seeing these names?

He understood.

God hadn't been joking.

And if the world was indeed a patchwork of familiar legends and unknowns, then John would play the hand dealt to him — carefully, but boldly.

He glanced down at the roster again, and this time with clarity in his eyes.

Captain John Price — The Mentor

He started with the man who, in another world, was everyone's commander — Captain John Price.

John leafed through the file, absorbing the field reports and commendations. Combat experience across multiple terrains, deep knowledge of counter-insurgency, sharp tactical thinking. Price had seen more than most generals. Yet somehow, fate had left him unassigned — floating in the pool of "available but unclaimed."

John felt the weight of that reality. He was a rookie leader with barely a year of real combat under his belt, choosing someone who had more experience than the brass that had just promoted him.

It was crazy.

But it was also necessary.

Price wasn't just a fighter. He was a foundation. The kind of man you could build a team around. If John was to lead, he needed someone like Price — not beneath him, but beside him. Someone who could cover what he didn't know yet. Someone who could teach through action, not lectures.

"He'll be the spine of the squad," John muttered to himself. "The veteran, the planner. My shield when I fall short."

He scrawled the name Captain John Price onto the squad manifest.

Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish — The Spearhead

Next came Soap.

John remembered him from the same world as Price. Brash, loud, always diving headfirst into chaos with a grin on his face. But beneath the swagger was a mind made for improvisation and close-quarters destruction.

His file was chaotic — action after action that ended in either overwhelming victory or near-suicidal stunts. Evaluators marked him as "reckless but talented," and "in need of strong guidance."

John smirked. "In other words, pure Soap."

In a unit that would likely face the worst of what this stitched-together world had to offer, John needed someone who could tear open a path, break through enemy lines, and make room for the rest to follow. He didn't need discipline — not from Soap. He needed impact. Explosiveness.

"Breacher. Vanguard," John said, penning Soap's name down next.

The kid from Scotland would be the blade at the front — messy, loud, but effective. If Price was the brain, Soap was the bloody fist.

Nikolai — The Escape Artist

Then there was Nikolai.

The man's dossier read like a mystery novel. Russian origins. No official rank. Operative for multiple factions, including black-market ties, smugglers, and freedom fighters. A pilot, a driver, a fixer — but above all, a survivor.

John didn't even hesitate.

He remembered playing missions in his old world where things had gone completely sideways, only for a chopper to swoop in with Nikolai at the helm, yelling something cryptic in Russian while pulling soldiers from the jaws of death.

Here? In this world of death squads and warring kingdoms and wandering beasts? Escape routes mattered just as much as kill counts.

"If everything goes wrong," John whispered, "he's the guy who'll get us out."

Nikolai wouldn't be frontline — but his knowledge of routes, vehicles, enemy movement, and safe houses would be invaluable. He would be the mobility and fallback support. The safety net.

The kind of man John knew to never take for granted.

He added Nikolai's name beneath the others.

Simon 'Ghost' Riley — The Phantom Scout

Finally, he reached Ghost's file.

Or rather, a bundle of redacted documents and observation notes. No full name in the official header, but John knew exactly who it was from the skull-marked photo alone.

Simon Riley.

The ghost in the shadows. One of the most efficient black ops agents in modern warfare history — at least in John's old world. Here, he was a specter. No unit, no chain of command. Just a whisper with a kill count higher than some battalions.

"He's perfect," John said quietly.

In this world, where magic bled into technology, where beast and man fought side by side, Ghost was something else entirely — a symbol of control in chaos. A scout. A sniper. A ghost for the Reaper.

It was ironic, even poetic. A ghost watching over him, while he carved through the enemy.

John had noticed something else too. In the few surveillance images included, Ghost was always observing. Calculating. Watching others rather than taking the lead.

He'd see through John in time — maybe even suspect something unnatural behind his instincts and abilities.

But John didn't mind.

In fact, it made him respect the man more.

He added Ghost's name last, capping off the roster.

The Squad Was Born

Price. Soap. Nikolai. Ghost.

Task Force 141 — reborn under a new banner.

John looked down at the paper, then slowly closed the file case. His fingers trembled slightly. Not from fear — but from the realization of what he'd just done.

He was a young leader with barely a year of real combat. But he had chosen giants to stand beside him. He knew what they were capable of — not from reports, but from memory. From another life.

He could already imagine how strange the introductions would be. Price would question the orders. Soap would test him. Nikolai would smile knowingly. Ghost… Ghost would just watch.

And yet, somehow, John wasn't afraid.

He lit a cigarette with trembling fingers and stepped out of the tent, the night wind wrapping around him like a warning.

The stars above seemed different — as if even the sky was waiting.

He looked up, took a long drag, and exhaled.

"They're not mine yet," he said to himself. "But they will be. This team… it'll change everything."

And from the shadows of war, the Reaper's blade began to take shape.