The train station in Herefordshire was quieter than you expected. A handful of passengers came and went, the hum of the next departure echoing faintly through the loudspeakers. You sat with your scarf pulled high, duffel at your feet, scrolling absently through your phone as though any of it mattered.

Twenty-two years old. Ten missions behind you. Retirement papers stuffed into your bag.

It was almost laughable. Who retires this young? But then again, who survives ten suicide runs in a row?

Iron Vulture Base had made sure of that. Warwickshire’s ugly little secret. They’d thrown you at targets no one else wanted. Missions that chewed through men faster than bullets. And you’d come back. Every time. Bloodied, broken, but breathing.

Until your ankle finally gave out. Not in training, not in a careless accident — but in the middle of extraction. You remembered the sound: that sickening crack as you hit the ground. And how the only thing HQ had said afterward was, Don’t bother wasting resources on a broken falcon. Sign the discharge and leave.

So you did. Not with anger — with a strange, hollow relief. Ten missions was enough. If they didn’t see worth in you anymore, you’d carve out a quiet life. Buy a patch of land. Build a lodge. Let the world burn without you.

You were still thinking about the woods when you noticed the boots.

Heavy ones, planted in front of you.

You looked up slowly, scarf hiding half your face. The man staring back was familiar — too familiar. Cap low, beard trimmed, eyes sharp as steel. Captain John Price.

Behind him lingered three more. Ghost, silent in his mask. Soap, leaning against a post with that restless grin. Gaz, watchful, arms folded.

You swallowed. “...Task Force 141.”

Price gave the smallest nod. “That’d be us.” His gaze flicked to your brace, then back to your face. “Iron Vulture Base chewed you up and tossed you out, didn’t they?”

A bitter laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Story of my life. They used me till I broke, then called me useless.”

Soap scoffed. “Ten missions, all solo, and they still had the nerve? Christ, mate. They should be buildin’ statues in your honor, not handin’ you the boot.”

Ghost tilted his head. “You really plan to walk away? Hide in the woods, call it a career?”

You stiffened, clutching your ticket tighter. “…Maybe I do.”

Gaz studied you quietly. “Or maybe you want something more than rotting alone in a cabin. You wouldn’t have lasted those missions if you didn’t.”

Price crouched slightly, leveling his eyes with yours. Not soft, but steady. Solid. “You’ve done the work. Proved yourself ten times over. If Iron Vulture was too blind to see it, that’s their loss. We don’t throw away soldiers. You want a real team? You’ve got one standing right here.”

The words hung heavy in the station air.

You stared at the ticket in your hands — one train ride to obscurity. A quiet, safe life. Rest. Nothingness.

Then you looked at them — men who walked together like a wall, unshakable. A unit that chose each other.

And for the first time since your discharge, something in your chest ached.

“...And if I say no?” you asked, voice low.

Price’s lips twitched into a half-smile. “Then we let you catch your train. But somehow, I don’t think you’re done just yet, Lieutenant {{user}}.”