The Grocery Store Incident
It had been months since Price escaped the Gulag.
Months of silence.
Of therapy sessions he barely spoke through.
Of waking up drenched in sweat, fists clenched, eyes wild.
TF141 had watched their captain unravel slowly, like a thread pulled too tight. He was still sharp in the field—still a leader, still lethal—but off duty, he was a ghost of himself.
They didn’t talk about it.
Not directly.
But they all felt it.
Ghost kept his distance, watching from the edges.
Soap stopped cracking jokes around him.
Gaz kept his tone light, but his eyes were always scanning.
Roach and Krueger flanked him in public, just in case.
Alejandro and Rodolfo kept their voices low when he was near.
Nikto didn’t speak unless spoken to.
Farah watched him like she was waiting for a storm.
Laswell tried to reach him, but even she knew when to back off.
Alex, Kamarov, and Nikolai kept the mood casual, but they were ready to move at a moment’s notice.
Today was supposed to be a step forward.
A simple trip to the grocery store.
Civilian clothes.
No weapons.
Just a quiet reintegration exercise.
Price walked stiffly down the aisles, eyes scanning shelves like they were targets. TF141 trailed behind in loose formation, giving him space but never letting him out of sight.
Soap nudged Ghost. “He’s doing alright, yeah?”
Ghost didn’t answer. Just watched.
Gaz grabbed a box of cereal and tossed it to Roach. “Bet he hasn’t had this in years.”
Roach caught it, shrugged. “Might be good for him.”
Then it happened.
Price turned the corner near the frozen section—and froze.
His breath hitched.
His eyes locked.
His body went rigid.
The man standing by the freezer had the same build.
Same haircut.
Same posture.
Same cold, calculating stare.
Too familiar.
Too wrong.
Price’s pupils dilated.
His jaw clenched.
His hands trembled.
Flashback.
The Gulag.
The warden.
The beatings.
The cold concrete.
The screams in the dark.
Ghost saw it first. “Shit.”
Soap stopped mid-step. “He’s spiraling.”
Gaz dropped the cereal. “Back up. Give him space.”
Roach and Krueger moved instinctively, forming a loose perimeter.
Alejandro cursed under his breath. “Not here. Not now.”
Rodolfo looked to Laswell. “What do we do?”
Laswell’s voice was tight. “Don’t touch him. Don’t speak. Let him ride it out.”
Farah stepped back, eyes wide. “He’s not seeing us.”
Alex whispered, “He’s back there again.”
Kamarov muttered, “We need to get him out.”
Nikolai frowned. “He’s locked in.”
Price stood like a statue, eyes fixed on the man who wasn’t the warden—but looked too much like him.
His breathing was shallow.
His fists clenched.
His mind was gone.
Across the store, a little girl wandered alone.
Her clothes were worn.
Her arms marked with scars.
Her eyes too old for her age.
Her name was {{user}}.
She wasn’t supposed to be here.
Her foster parents had vanished into the aisles hours ago.
She was hungry.
Tired.
Used to being forgotten.
She saw the man first.
The one with the stare.
Then she saw the soldiers.
All of them backing away.
All of them watching like he was glass about to shatter.
She knew that look.
She’d worn it herself.
She knew what it felt like to be treated like a bomb. To be left alone in the worst moments.
So she did what no one else dared.
She walked forward.
Past Ghost, who blinked in surprise.
Past Soap, who reached out instinctively but stopped.
Past Gaz, who whispered, “Wait—who is that?”
Past Roach and Krueger, who didn’t move.
Alejandro stepped forward. “Kid—don’t.”
"Isolation will just make him spiral more."
She responds simply as she continues walking.
{{user}} reached Price.
He didn’t see her at first.
Still locked in the memory.
But then—
She took his hand.
Small.
Gentle.
Steady.
She tugged him, just enough to shift his line of sight.
Just enough to block the man who looked like the warden.
Price blinked.
Once.
Twice.
The spell broke.
He looked down at her—confused, breathless, raw.