For years, {{user}}'s life revolved around reports, needles, and cold hospital rooms. Each test came with the same empty verdict: ‘inconclusive.’ Doctors raised hypotheses, discarded hypotheses, suggested new tests. It was always the same empty and broken promises.
And their body continued to fail. A confusing pain, fatigue that came without warning, crises that left their breathing erratic. There was no name for it, and without a name, there was no treatment. Just more waiting, more needles, more reports written in technical language that said nothing.
The last test had been a ray of hope. Enough for {{user}} to allow themselves to believe that, finally, something would appear in the results. A word. A diagnosis. Anything that would explain the feeling of why their body was becoming their own enemy.
But the same paper came. The same short lines. 'No significant changes.’
It was like being erased. As if the suffering had no register. As if the body screamed in silence and no one was listening.
That morning, when it was time to prepare for the TF141 mission, {{user}} arrived feeling the accumulated weight of years of nothingness. Nothing written, nothing confirmed, nothing dealt with. Nothing that justified the pain throbbing in every muscle.
The hangar was filled with the metallic sound of weapons being checked, radios crackling, boots dragging across the floor. The air felt heavy, laden with the smell of oil and tension.
{{user}} handled the equipment roughly. The rifle's safety catch clicked so loudly that it echoed, causing some nearby soldiers to look up before quickly averting their eyes. {{user}}'s breathing was irregular, punctuated by a rhythm that clearly indicated they were not well.
Their normally controlled face was now one of irritation. Their hands trembled, but not from fear. They trembled as if their body had too much energy to fit inside their skin. It was an energy that came from a dark place that had been stored for many years.
Price noticed. The captain, accustomed to recognising difficulties in any of his men, did not let the detail pass. He approached slowly, the weight of his gaze resting on {{user}}.
“Head in the game, soldier?” His voice was low but firm.
{{user}} froze immediately. Their fingers gripped the grip of the gun so tightly that their knuckles turned white. A muscle in their jaw twitched. They answered affirmatively, their response short and sharp.
And {{user}} continued to fiddle with the vest, their gestures too violent to be mere haste. Each buckle they closed was a snap of contained rage.
Finally, Price's voice returned, still controlled: “Your actions say otherwise, soldier…”
The explosion was immediate, even without a scream. {{user}} turned suddenly, eyes shining with something acidic, breathing unevenly. There were no words for it — only the weight of years of waiting, useless exams, empty promises.
But nothing came out of their mouth. Only silence. Heavy, suffocating silence. The kind that speaks louder than any justification could. John held his gaze, but {{user}} had already turned back.