Following the events of "Endgame":

"Why do I have a feeling we're about to be thrown into a shit-storm?" Ramirez asked Corporal Dunn as they walked into the meeting room.

The pair had been ordered to meet in an isolated building a few miles outside of Washington D.C.

Foley had given them no further information and the building was all but abandoned. When they arrived, a secretary had ushered them into a large room with a long table in the middle.

"Let me get this straight," Dunn said with a chuckle. "In the past week alone, we've been shot at by tanks, planes, and helicopters. Then, the helicopters almost fell on us after a total blackout. After that, we ran through a monsoon. And to top it all off, the White House was almost leveled to the ground by our own military with us still inside."

"Your point being?" Ramirez pressed.

"You call the possible results of a simple meeting a 'shit-storm'?" Dunn finished.

"Well," said a man who sat in the corner of the room. "That's assuming that this meeting is even in the books."

…

Derek stood and walked forward, extending his hand. "Derek Westbrook, United States Navy SEAL. And you are?"

"Private James Ramirez, Army Ranger," one of the soldiers said, shaking Derek's hand. He motioned to the second soldier. "This is Corporal Dunn."

"Nice to meet you," Derek said shaking hands with the second soldier.

"What makes you think this isn't an official meeting?" Ramirez asked.

There was a loud chuckle as two more men entered the room. One was an African American man. He took a seat at the table.

The Caucasian man who had chuckled walked in a second later and removed his sunglasses. "I'm Grinch, U.S. Army."

"Truck," the man sitting at the table muttered. "Same."

"Pleasure," Ramirez said with a polite nod.

"So, what do you two think?" Derek asked.

"Come on," Grinch said a laugh, sitting down in a chair and placing his feet on the table. "We're attending a meeting that involves a whole bunch of soldiers from different squads and ranks that's being held in a location that's not even on the map."

"What do you think this is about?" Dunn asked.

"Whatever this is," Truck said. "It's big enough that Grinch and I were pulled off the front lines in Washington."

Derek opened his mouth to reply when three official looking men walked through the doors. Derek recognized Sergeant Foley of the U.S. Rangers and MacMillan; the Director of Special Forces. The third man was middle aged and Caucasian. His face was wrinkled and cleanshaven. He had dark hair and was wearing a grey suit and tie.

The soldiers in the room rose and stood at attention.

"At ease," Foley said.

"Sergeant Foley," Ramirez said with a respectful nod. "I didn't think I'd see you again before I was transferred."

"Technically, nobody is here," the man in the suit said cryptically.

"Are you military?" Truck asked the man in the suit.

"In the future you will know me as designation Overlord," the man replied.

"Are we a squad now?" Dunn asked, motioning to his fellow soldiers.

"That's the big question," MacMillan answered. "Please, take your seats."

Everyone sat around the large table.

Foley, MacMillan, and Overlord sat the head of the table.

"Everything said in this room will be off the record," Foley announced. "Understood?"

Everyone nodded.

"To those who don't know," MacMillan began. "My name is MacMillan, Director of Special Operations in Britain. To my right is Sergeant Foley of the U.S Rangers."

Derek tapped the table, ready to get the meeting underway.

"People are dying out there," Ramirez said impatiently, mirroring Derek's thoughts. "Why are we sitting here?"

MacMillan took a tape recorder out of his jacket pocket, set on the table, and hit play.

The voice of an older Englishman came through the small speaker. "This is for the record. History is written by the victor. History is filled with liars. If he lives and we die, his truth becomes written. And ours is lost. Shepherd will be a hero. 'Cause all you need to change the world is one good lie and a river of blood."

Derek glanced at MacMillan who leaned back in his chair, stroking his beard.

The voice on the recording continued. "He's about to complete the greatest trick a liar ever played on history. His truth will be the truth. But only if he lives. And we die."

The recording ended.

"Who was that?" Ramirez asked.

"That," MacMillan said, picking up the tape recorder and placing it back in his jacket. "Was Captain Jonathan Price".

Overlord placed a few open files on the table. The files contained detailed pictures. One of them was a pile of burnt corpses.

Derek recognized the bodies instantly. The One-Four-One. Derek looked down for a moment in grief. He took a deep breath and looked at the other two pictures.

One was labeled 'Captain John Price'. The other, 'Captain John MacTavish'.

Derek ran a hand through his hair.

"You know these guys?" Ramirez asked Derek.

"His name is Captain MacTavish," Derek said, pointing to the second picture. "He's a good, honest soldier."

MacMillan leaned forward. "They are traitors—"

"Bullshit!" Derek snapped. "I didn't have a lot of fieldwork with MacTavish, but I can tell you he's no traitor. Traitors don't bother helping out with transfers. He's the reason I'm not overseas right now."

"I've heard of these guys," Grinch said, leaning forward. "Well, I've heard the rumors at least. They we're pretty big names after the Russian Civil War."

"These are some serious accusations," Truck added.

"Where's the proof," Dunn asked.

"That's what I'd like to know," Ramirez said, leaning forward in his chair.

MacMillan exchanged glances with the two men at the end of the table.

"MacMillan," Foley said quietly. "This might work."

MacMillan nodded and turned to the soldiers gathered around the table. "We believe as you do, Mr. Westbrook. Foley and I know these men personally. Less than two days ago, they men were hunting down a war criminal. They and the entirety of Task Force 141 were branded traitors by General Shepherd."

"One of the founders," Derek muttered, disgusted.

"The rest of their team is K.I.A." MacMillan continued with sadness in his voice. He motioned to the picture of the burnt corpses, "MacTavish and Price were… are the only survivors. That recording was the last we heard from them."

"We found Shepherd's body in Afghanistan," Foley said, gathering up the files. He left the pictures of Price and MacTavish on the table. "Price and MacTavish were nowhere to be seen. They're still out there, hunting the real problem."

"And what is the real problem?" asked Ramirez.

"Makarov," Overload answered. He produced more files and handed them to each man around the table. "He is the man responsible for this continuing war. Task Force 141 is just Shepherd's scapegoat."

"The One-Four-One is responsible for the blackout in Washington," Foley said to Ramirez and Dunn. He looked at the rest of the soldiers gathered around the table. "They are responsible for giving the United States the ability to go on the offensive."

Overlord motioned to Truck and Grinch, who were watching the exchange in silence. "These two were originally pinned down in the suburbs that Foley's team cleared of Russians."

"Well, well," Grinch said with a sly grin. He looked at Dunn and Ramirez. "I guess we owe you thanks."

"No shit," Truck said under his breath.

"You're welcome," Ramirez said. He looked at MacMillan, Foley, and Overlord. "We still don't know why we're here."

"You're here because we need to put a team together," MacMillan said, rising from his seat.

"We aren't recreating Price's team," Overlord explained. "We need a Counterstrike Special Forces unit. Officially, you'll be assisting in the efforts to clear out the Russian forces and regain lost ground."

Foley leaned back in his chair. "Unofficially, you'll be at our disposal. Or rather…" Foley motioned to the pictures of Price and MacTavish. "Theirs."

"These men are fugitives. But that won't stop them for long," MacMillan promised. "The second they get a lead on Makarov, they will investigate. If Price and MacTavish need help, if they can't do something covertly, they will call me, I will call Foley, and we will call you."

"We need absolute loyalty from you," Foley said firmly. "In these times loyalty is hard to come by. We can't force you to do this. But your history in this war calls for a certain amount of…"

"Special treatment," MacMillan completed.

Ramirez and Derek looked across the table at Grinch and Truck.

Grinch looked at Truck who shrugged.

Grinch answered the unspoken question. He looked at Ramirez and Dunn. "We're in. The way I see it you saved our lives."

Ramirez picked up MacTavish's picture. "How well did you know this man?" he asked Derek.

Derek looked at his own reflection on the table. "Before his death, I got the feeling that MacTavish was keeping me around for something. I assume that's why I'm here," he said quietly, looking to the men at the head of the table. "If you need me for a team, I'll do everything I can."

"Looks like you have a team," Ramirez said, leaning back in his chair. He looked at the head of the table. "Who's the team leader?"

"We were considering Corporal Dunn," Foley announced.

Dunn shook his head. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Is there something you need to tell us?" Overlord asked sternly.

"I'm not ready for a command," Dunn said calmly. He sighed. "During the blackout, I faltered. I panicked. I'm not the best choice to lead this team."

"We're open to suggestions," Grinch commented.

"Ramirez did everything Foley told him," Dunn continued firmly. "No questions asked. He saved my life more times than I can count and frankly, the White House wouldn't be standing if it weren't for him."

Everyone looked at Ramirez.

After a moment, Ramirez sighed and stood. "I'll only do it if everyone is in agreement. We don't trust each other, people die."

Nobody objected.

"Looks like we have a team leader," Derek said. He looked at Ramirez. "What are we gonna call you?"

"As I said," Ramirez chuckled. "We're probably headed for a shit-storm so bad that it will make me miss Afghanistan. You might as well call me Sandman."

"Three call-signs down," Grinch said. He looked at Derek. "One to go."

Derek looked down for a moment.

"Stay Frosty. Even when the world is burning down around you."

Derek looked at his squad. "Frost."

A silence settled over the room as the three men heading up the meeting exchanged knowing glances.

"Sir," Dunn said to Foley. "If it's alright with you, I'd like to stick around."

Foley nodded with a hint of admiration. "I'll request you be transferred with me to Station Bravo, Department of Defense. They're coming up with strategies for our boys in the field."

"Where are we headed?" Derek asked, motioning to the rest of his squad.

Overlord looked at the newly formed team. "Team Metal is to be deployed to New York. 1100 Hours."

…

"Soap's good for now," Price said, moving away from the wounded soldier. "But he needs proper medical attention."

"Good," Nikolai said from the pilot's seat.

The younger soldier groaned in pain.

"Where are we headed?" Price asked.

"Himachal Pradesh, India. There is militia there with doctor," Nikolai answered. "People I trust."

Price nodded and looked at Soap again, fingering his Captain's pistol.

"So what happens after that?" Nikolai asked.

"We stay off the grid," Price answered, letting his hand drop. He looked out at the horizon. "For now."

Call of Duty:

Modern Warfare