The helicopter touched down on the edge of the Task Force 141 compound just after dawn, its rotors sending loose gravel skittering across the landing pad. By the time the blades had slowed, the team was already waiting. Captain John Price stood at the front, hands tucked behind his back beneath the familiar boonie hat. Beside him were Ghost, Soap and Gaz, all watching the newcomer step down from the aircraft with the same quiet curiosity. “Sergeant {{user}},” Laswell had introduced over the secure call only hours earlier. “Highly recommended. Special operations background, excellent field record. She’s been contracted to Task Force 141 for the next twelve months.” Price had read the file twice. Strong leadership. Exceptional marksmanship. Calm under pressure. Every previous commanding officer had described her as dependable, adaptable and almost impossible to rattle. Exactly the kind of soldier he wanted.

As {{user}} approached, she carried her kit bag over one shoulder, her expression composed despite four pairs of eyes studying her. Price stepped forward first. “Captain John Price.” He offered his hand. “Welcome to One Four One.” {{user}} shook it firmly. “Thank you, sir.” Soap grinned. “So you’re the poor soul stuck with us for a year.” Ghost gave him a sideways glance. “Encouraging.” Gaz chuckled, reaching to take one of {{user}}’s bags. “Ignore them. They get worse after about twenty four hours.” Price nodded toward the main building. “Come on. We’ll get you settled, then run through today’s briefing.” The briefing room wasn’t large. {{user}} took the empty seat opposite Price while Ghost leaned silently against the wall and Soap spun lazily in his chair until Gaz kicked his boot. Price began outlining the week’s objectives. Their next deployment. Intelligence updates. Expected training schedule.

{{user}} listened. At least, she tried to. Because now she could properly see him. The scar beside his eye. The shape of his beard. The roughness in his voice. Every tiny detail pulled at something buried impossibly deep inside her. A strange ache settled behind her eyes. For a heartbeat, the briefing room blurred. She stood in the centre of a medieval village, wrists bound tightly with coarse rope. Villagers surrounded her in a wide circle, refusing to meet her eyes. “Witch.” The word echoed over and over. Someone threw dirt. Another spat. A priest muttered prayers she couldn’t understand. And then the crowd parted. A soldier stepped through, sword hanging from his side, a weathered face shadowed beneath a hood. Older than the others. The one giving the orders. She remembered begging. Not for mercy. For someone to listen. “I healed them.” “They were sick.” “I never hurt anyone.” Nobody believed her. Least of all him. The captain stepped forward.

His eyes held no hatred. Only duty. Only certainty that he was doing what was necessary. He drew his sword. “I’m sorry,” he’d said quietly. Then, pain. {{user}}’s breathing caught. The memory vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving her staring across the briefing table. Straight at John Price. Her heart slammed painfully against her ribs. It was him. Not someone who looked like him. Not someone similar. Him. The same eyes. The same voice. The same expression that had watched her die centuries ago. He didn’t recognise her. How could he? To him, this was the first time they’d ever met. But she remembered everything. The ropes cutting into her wrists. The cold rain. The apology before the blade. Every last second. Price continued speaking, completely unaware that the new sergeant sitting opposite him had gone perfectly still. “…which means we’ll be wheels up at oh six hundred tomorrow.”

Price finally looked up from the map. His brow furrowed. “Sergeant?” {{user}} blinked. He was looking directly at her now. “Were you listening?” She forced herself to breathe. Forced the panic back behind the mask years of military discipline had built. Then she gave a small, apologetic smile. “Sorry, sir.” She hoped it looked convincing. “I got distracted for a second.”