Author's Note: I own Fire Emblem, Call of Duty, all characters within these two franchises, the newest iPhone, a sleek new Mercedes, Nintendo, Activision, a private jet, a luxurious resort on a tropical island and enough money to erase the national debt of the United States of America. I am handsome, intelligent, charming, a playboy millionaire, holder of two Olympic records in swimming and javelin-throwing, an influential member of the Free-Masons (who incidentally, control the world), the secret son of Theodore Roosevelt and Wonder Woman and, most importantly, a compulsive liar.

(I do not own Fire Emblem or Call of Duty or any of that stuff)

Prologue: Loose Ends

Day 6

Caucasus Mountains

Simon "Ghost" Riley

"Roach, hang in there!"

As the back hatch of the landing MH-53 Pave Low helicopter slowly opened, Lieutenant General Shepherd watched as the two battered men slowly made their way to him, the one gravely wounded supported by the other. As to be expected, the new guy, George Sanderson, survived again. Every single mission, he always found a way to get injured, whether by his curious inability to jump further than arms length or by his bad habit of get crushed by various heavy inanimate objects. He wasn't called "Roach" for nothing, for he was as indestructible as his namesake. He always found a way to live on.

The other surviving member of the raiding mission was the most enigmatic member of Task Force 141. Constantly hiding his face behind a ski mask depicting a grinning skull motif and dark, impenetrable sunglasses, Simon "Ghost" Riley's past before joining the Task Force remains a mystery. A rather quiet individual, Shepherd knew as much about him after three years than the day he first arrived at the military barracks. Nevertheless, with his vast knowledge of electronic warfare and his deadly precise marksman skills, Lieutenant Riley has always proven himself to be an important asset on the battlefield. It's a shame both he and Roach had to die today.

"Come on, get up! Get up! Get up! We're almost there!"

Task Force 141 was composed of the world's finest soldiers. Handpicked personally by General Shepherd himself and secretly backed up by the governments of the sixteen most wealthy countries of the western world, Task Force 141 could deploy anywhere in the world in a matter of hours to defend the interests of NATO. Expectations were high. "Two men took down an entire base. I ask much more from you now" General Shepherd once said to a new recruit. It was the truth. Each individual soldier had to be an army by himself.

Shepherd took one good, final look at the two British special operatives. Their clothing was smeared with mud and blood, ripped by shrapnel and stray bullets. Their body armour was covered in bullet holes, each puncture representing the impact of a potentially fatal rifle round, stopped only by a wall layered ceramic plates. He saw their sagged shoulders, their slight limping where their non-protected legs were grazed by bullets, and the weary look in their eyes. Twelve soldiers left for Makarov's storehouse, intent on retrieving critical information destined to turn the tide in the ongoing war between the United States of America and the Russian Federation. Only two are left, now that Shepherds mercenaries had taken care of the remaining snipers on the nearby hill. Looks like Makarov's men were good for something after all.

"Do you have the DSM?" The data storage module contained incriminating evidence on Vladimir Makarov, but also of his own involvement in the events that lead to a full-scale Russian invasion of the United States. Ever since the loss of a whole Marine Recon Force in the Middle East five years ago, America's fighting spirit had wavered and waned, a weakness that the United States could not afford in the tumultuous 21st century. A spark was needed to re-ignite the fire. Shepherd had provided this spark, assisting Vladimir Makarov, a Russian extremist, in framing the United States for a bloody massacre in a Russian airport. The Russian response was swift and brutal; one thousand American citizens killed for every dead Russian. Many have died, but much more would have perished had he done nothing, Shepherd was sure of it. Once again, America was united against a common foe. It was all that mattered.

"We got it, sir!" Came the reply. From Ghost, obviously. Roach was in no shape to talk.

"Good. That's one less loose end." Shepherd felt a slight twinge of regret cross his mind as he drew his pistol from its holster. Roach and Ghost were both excellent soldiers; dogged, disciplined and determined, as were all of Task Force 141. They always succeeded, no matter the odds, no matter the opposition, no matter the price. Shepherd respected that. Yet, in order for his plan to be successful, Task Force 141 had to be annihilated down to the last man. They knew too much. The stakes were too high. If only they had been born in America, they might be using their talents to repel the Russian invasion right now. As it is, they were simply born at the wrong place. Aiming at the nearly unconscious Roach, Shepherd pulled the trigger.

"NO!" The shot hit Roach in the abdomen, just under the stomach. Not a fatal wound on its own, but Roach had already lost too much blood to hope for survival. Quickly, before Ghost could raise his assault rifle, Shepherd shifted his aim, turning towards Ghost with a gesture honed by years of military practice, and fired again.

The bullet hit him in the middle of the forehead, precisely between the eyes. The British Lieutenant's body recoiled backwards under the force of the impact, the bullet emerging from the rear of the head in a burst of crimson, his eyes rolling towards the back of the head. Shepherd watched with a dispassionate stare as life left Ghost's body and waited for the soft "thud" of the body hitting the ground.

Said "thud" never came. The tumbling body vanished into thin air under Shepherd's bewildered stare.