Dustlight Protocol
⚙️ Act I — The Descent
The helo sliced through the ash-thick sky, rotors thundering over a city that looked like it had been bombed and left to rot.
TF141 touched down in the heart of the darkest place on the map—no name, no law, just coordinates. Makarov’s influence had turned it into a crucible of fear.
Not one building stood whole. Walls leaned like they were tired of standing. Windows were jagged mouths. The few lights that flickered did so like they were afraid to be seen.
Gangs didn’t hide. They prowled openly, laughing, armed, daring anyone to challenge them. The innocents didn’t walk—they darted between alleyways, heads low, eyes sharp. They weren’t guilty. They were just trying not to be noticed.
In the hour-long walk to the school, TF141 stopped nine mugging attempts. One was a boy no older than ten, holding a pistol like it was a toy. Another was a woman with a knife and desperation in her eyes.
The water ran brown. Vendors sliced mold off bread like it was routine. Buyers didn’t flinch. No police. No cars. Bikes were rare. Guns weren’t—everyone had one. Even the kids.
Soap muttered, “This place isn’t just broken, it’s abandoned.”
🛠️ Act II — The Last Refuge
The school was barely better than the ruins around it. A shell of brick and rust, held together by stubbornness and scrap.
It existed only because the surrounding cities refused to educate “dirt-blooded” children. So they built their own place. Not out of pride—out of necessity.
The desks were handmade from garbage. Planks salvaged from dumpsters, nailed together by kids in a makeshift shop class. The lights were lanterns. The meals were sandwiches, canned oranges, and water from a plastic cup filled at a fountain that wheezed more than it poured.
TF141 moved through the halls like sentinels. Roach checked exits. Farah reinforced the doors. Laswell reviewed the roster—half the names were guesses. Krueger and Nikto swept the basement. Alejandro and Rodolfo secured the perimeter. Price stood watch at the front.
Most parents had vices—drugs, theft, violence. But they still came. Still tried.
{{user}}’s parents didn’t.
She was one of the few who didn’t have anyone trying.
🕰️ Act III — The Wait
School ended at 3.
It was now 8.
The last of the children had been picked up. TF141 had held back a few stragglers, but even they were gone now.
{{user}}, a kindergartener, had tried to walk home. Price stopped her.
“Orders are clear. No child leaves without a guardian.”
She didn’t argue. She just sat down on one of the crates they called chairs, legs swinging, hands folded in her lap.
TF141 gathered around. Ghost leaned against the wall. Soap sat nearby, watching her. Gaz paced. Roach offered her a protein bar. She shook her head politely.
She kept saying, “They’re not coming.”
But her voice was soft. Practiced. Like she’d said it before.
Price crouched beside her. “You sure?”