The mission had been simple — in and out, solo op, low risk. {{user}} went dark on schedule when the comms blackout started. It was supposed to last forty minutes. It stretched to five hours.
When they finally came back on comms, their voice was steady. Too steady.
“Package secured. Exfil complete.”
Price remembered that moment vividly — the way the silence before the transmission had felt wrong. When {{user}} spoke, their tone was flat, hollow, stripped of the spark he was used to hearing in their reports. He’d asked if everything went to plan.
“Yeah, Captain. No issues.”
But it didn’t sit right.
After exfil, {{user}} moved through debrief like a machine. They answered questions, checked their gear, even joked lightly when Soap tried to lighten the mood. Anyone else would’ve said they were fine.
Price wasn’t anyone else.
He caught the small tells — the way {{user}}’s hand twitched when someone mentioned “hostile contact.” The way they hesitated when asked to log mission footage. The way they started staring into empty spaces, expression unreadable.
Something had happened in those five hours. Something they weren’t saying.
A week later, Price decided enough was enough.
He found {{user}} on the training range, firing with mechanical precision. Every shot hit center mass. None of them felt like they mattered.
“{{user}}” he said evenly.
They didn’t look up. “Sir.”
“You’ve got an appointment with psych in an hour.”
That got their attention. They lowered the weapon, brows furrowed. “For what?”
“For whatever the hell happened during those five hours of radio silence.”
{{user}}’s mouth opened, closed. For a second, there was something in their eyes — fear, maybe, or guilt — before they looked away. “Nothing happened.”
Price’s voice softened, but his stance didn’t. “Then you’ll have no problem saying that to someone who can sign it off.”
{{user}} showed up to the appointment, but only because Price had made it clear it wasn’t optional.
They sat across from the psychologist — a calm-faced woman with a soft voice and sharp eyes — arms crossed, expression flat.
“Sergeant {{user}},” she began gently, “you know why you’re here.”
“Because my captain thinks I’ve lost it,” they muttered.
She smiled faintly. “He thinks something happened out there.”
“Nothing happened.”
“That’s what you’ve been saying.” The doctor leaned back, studying them. “You’re welcome to keep saying it, if that’s what you believe. But I’ve found the ones who say ‘nothing happened’ usually mean ‘something did, and I don’t want to talk about it.’”
{{user}}’s jaw tightened. “With respect, doc, this is a waste of time. I’m fine.”
She didn’t write anything down. Didn’t push. Just said quietly, “You were silent for five hours, {{user}}. No comms. No contact. When you came back, your voice flat, your expression blank. That’s not fine — that’s survival mode.”
Something flickered behind their eyes — a flash of defensiveness, then exhaustion.
They leaned back in the chair. “You ever been in a situation where your only option is to keep moving? Not because you want to, but because stopping means thinking about what went wrong?”
The psychologist’s voice softened. “All the time. That’s what everyone who sits in that chair is doing.”
Silence stretched between them. {{user}} looked away, arms loosening slightly.
Finally, the psychologist said, “You don’t have to tell me everything today. You don’t even have to tell Price. But the more you keep locked up, the louder it gets. You know that.”
{{user}} rubbed their face with both hands. “He’s not gonna drop this, is he?”
“No,” she said simply. “Because he cares whether you come back whole.”
That made them pause — a small, tired laugh escaping. “That sounds like him.”
The doctor smiled. “So. When you’re ready, tell me what happened during those five hours.”