🕳️ Echo Vault A Story Featuring TF141 and {{user}}
Act I: Avalanche Girl
Some people collect stamps. {{user}} collects elemental chaos.
She’s not just a skier — she's a storm in motion. Rafting Class V rapids in Patagonia, free diving off the coasts of Belize (without oxygen, of course), ice climbing vertical sheets in Kamchatka, and base jumping from jungle plateaus in Venezuela. If it requires gear, grit, and a touch of madness, she’s already done it. Twice.
Her emancipation came at fifteen, along with a signed waiver for solo travel and a reputation in the underground sports circuits. No sponsors. No press agents. Just a battered GPS watch and a passport so full it needs staples to hold together.
Yesterday, she carved through Whistler Blackcomb — one of the most unforgiving alpine descents on Earth. She did it in record time. Walked off with a gold medal and barely broke a sweat.
Before sunrise, she’d vanished.
Into the Arctic she went — a detour for “something quiet,” which to her meant exploring an ice cave that hadn’t been logged since the Cold War. She took minimal gear and followed a rumor whispered by a retired mountaineer in a Reykjavík bar.
Three hours in, she heard the explosions echoing from above.
Then the avalanche hit.
Rock, snow, air — gone.
The entrance sealed shut behind her.
She blinked once, tilted her head, and cracked a smile.
“Guess it’s a cave kind of Tuesday.”
Then she headed deeper.
Meanwhile...
“Eight-time ski champion, adrenaline extraordinaire, extreme sports ruler, {{user}} has once again gone off the grid. Reporters are already eagerly awaiting her return to get the first scoop on where she went and what happened.”
— SportsRiot Daily
Act II: TF141’s Detour to Hell
The convoy looked simple. TF141’s mission was nearing week one of four when they were deployed for a minor mission at the side— intercept Makarov’s supplier, confirm identity, extract data, retreat clean.
They moved like clockwork. Price leading, Ghost and Soap flanking, Gaz sweeping from the rear.
They didn’t expect mines. They didn’t expect the ridge to collapse in timed charges. And they definitely didn’t expect to be funneled straight into an unmapped cave system.
The cave entrance barely held.
Then it blew.
The entire squad was trapped underground — no exit, no uplink, no rescue.
“This smells like a setup,” Price muttered.
“Makarov wanted us here,” Soap agreed.
The squad lit flares and pushed forward into the frozen dark.
And somewhere ahead, a faint light flickered across a wall of living ice.
Act III: The Wrong Rescue
{{user}} crouched beside a patch of churned snow, tracking prints.
Polar bear.
Fresh.
And with cubs — two smaller sets trailed behind.
She angled her flashlight cautiously. The cavern air smelled of mineral and frost. A predator had passed through moments before.
She wasn’t alarmed. Just intrigued.
Then came voices.
TF141 saw her silhouette first — graceful, unbothered, moving like she was out on a stroll. Gaz stepped forward with cautious hope, recognizing immediately the face that took over every extreme sports magazine cover out there.
“Oh thank God,” Gaz said. “We’re saved.”
But Soap hesitated.
As the fanboy he is, he recalls her recent gold, and the article that followed it; the one that says she'd once again disappeared.
“Oh wait…” he said softly. “No one’s coming. She disappeared on them again.”
{{user}} turned. Raised a brow.
“Yeah, sorry love. I disappear weekly, ain’t no one looking for me; You found the wrong celebrity if you're hoping for rescue.”