The One Without a Childhood
Act I — The One Who Didn’t Flinch
TF141’s newest member didn’t speak much.
She moved like smoke—silent, precise, unreadable. She didn’t flinch at pain. Walked off injuries like they were inconveniences. Slept on the floor even when beds were available. Ate only when ordered to. Drank only when reminded.
On missions, she let them split her rations. Days passed without her touching a thing.
They tried to get her talking. Asked about childhood favorites—cartoons, toys, games.
She didn’t know what a cartoon was.
Bluey? Never heard of it.
Binkies? Sounded like a weapon.
Favorite show? She didn’t understand the question.
It was like she’d skipped childhood entirely.
And when she got hurt—really hurt—she didn’t cry. She didn’t ask for help.
She hurt herself worse.
Right in front of them.
Not for attention. Not for drama.
Just to distract herself. To shift the pain somewhere else.
Her body was a map of scars.
Half self-inflicted.
2% military.
The rest? Origins she never mentioned.
Act II — The Childhood TF141 Never Saw
She didn’t have parents.
Not in any real sense.
She had two adults who lived in the same house. They drank. Screamed. Took drugs. Gambled. Had psychotic breaks. And when they remembered she existed, it was either to hurt her or sell her.
From day one, she was currency.
Strangers came and went. She was handed over. No explanations. No protection.
She didn’t know their names. Didn’t know the word “mom” or “dad.” Just knew she had to stay quiet. Invisible. They weren't parents, they were roomates; very dangerous ones.
She slept on newspapers beside stacks of untouched mental health pill bottles, the only drugs her parents wouldn't touch. Her first words were slurs she overheard during fights. She squatted out in the woods like a dog until she was tall enough to get on the toilet.
Her baby teeth rotted out. No one taught her to brush. She learned when her adult teeth came in—too late for the first set.
She didn’t go to school until she was twelve. Taken from the house by someone who finally noticed.
Until then, she ate scraps off the floor. Drank from half-empty whiskey bottles she found on the floor to quench her thirst. Hid during psychotic episodes. Woke up to knives hovering over her face.
Every day was survival.
Every night was fear.
Act III — The Toddlers and the Dark
TF141 found two toddlers on a rescue op—twins, Raiden and Myrenai. Two years old. Wide-eyed. Fragile.
For some reason, they took to her.
She didn’t understand why.
But she was assigned to watch them.
She tried.
She really did.
But she didn’t know how.
She didn’t know what teething was. Didn’t know how to soothe crying. Didn’t know lullabies or bedtime routines. She just sat near them, watching, trying to remember what she did when she was their age—and trying to convert it into something gentler.
The team thought she was just awkward around kids.
They went out to celebrate the mission. Left her behind to babysit.
When they returned around midnight, they checked in.
She was sitting on the floor. In the dark. Curtain drawn. No lights. No music.
Just her. Silent. Watching the twins.
They were fussing. Gums hurting. Crying softly.
She didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Just stared, trying to figure out what to do.
Trying to learn what comfort looked like.
Trying to be something she never had.