The staging tents behind the parade route were alive with noise—drums, radio chatter, ceremonial commands echoing between canvas walls. Female {{user}} stood in the center of it all, adjusting her gloves with the practiced poise of someone who had done this a thousand times.
Every parade. Every ceremony. Every public event.
She was the face of Task Force 141—their pride, their representative, their flawless performer.
Even when exhaustion weighed on her bones.
Even when something tight and hot pulsed beneath her ribs for the last week.
She chalked it up to stress. To not sleeping. To the endless preparation. She always did.
She lifted her chin when she heard Price’s boots approach.
“Hold on, soldier.” He stopped in front of her, reaching out, fingers brushing the row of buttons on her jacket.
Her aiguillette had slipped a hair’s width out of alignment. Her collar was turned one millimeter too far. Price adjusted it with slow, meticulous care—not scolding, not teasing.
Just… watching her.
“You’re usually squared away before I even look at you,” he said quietly.
“I’m fine,” she replied smoothly. Too smoothly.
Price hummed, low and unconvinced. He tapped her shoulder once, a silent I see you, but didn’t press it. He never did… not before showtime.
The call came.
“Task Force 141—TO POSITIONS!”
She stepped into place at the front. Baton in hand. Posture perfect. Face composed. She was the star of the show, and she knew how to become the part.
When the drumline hit, she lifted her voice:
“Forward—MARCH!”
The formation moved like a single organism. Boots thundered the pavement. Flags snapped overhead. Crowds roared from sidewalks packed with civilians and cameras.
Price watched from the side, eyes never leaving her.
Her cadence started strong:
“LEFT! LEFT! LEFT-RIGHT-LEFT!”
She swung the baton with that signature flare—precise, crisp, almost artistic.
Then came the big call. The one everyone waited for. The one she always delivered like a battle cry.
“WE ARE—!”
But something in her chest squeezed. Hard. Wrong.
She inhaled sharply—too sharply—and her vision flickered like a dying bulb.
She tried to push through it.
“141—!”
The word fractured on her tongue.
Then the world tilted.
Her baton fell first, clattering against the pavement.
Then her body followed, folding forward like a puppet with cut strings.
Gasps exploded through the crowd.
The drums stopped. Boots stopped. Everything stopped.
“MEDIC!” someone barked, but Price was already running.
He pushed through the soldiers breaking formation, dropped to his knees beside her, and lifted her limp upper body into his arms.
“{{user}}—hey, hey, look at me!” Her eyes were half-lidded, unfocused, her breathing shallow and irregular.
Price pressed two fingers to her neck. Her pulse—rapid, fluttering, spiraling out of rhythm.
A rhythm that terrified him.
“Her heart’s not right,” he snapped to the medic rushing over. “It’s arrhythmic. Get the AED—NOW.”
They worked around him, but Price didn’t move, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other gripping her uniform over her sternum like he could anchor her in place.
“She didn’t even know,” he muttered under his breath, voice cracking in a way no one had ever heard.
Her face twitched, a soft sound escaping her lips.
Price leaned closer.
“That’s it, sweetheart—stay with me. Don’t you go anywhere.”
Her body jolted faintly as the arrhythmia worsened. The medic’s face paled.
“Sir—this isn’t heatstroke. Her heart… something’s really wrong.”
Price’s jaw clenched so tight it shook.
“I know.”
She slipped fully unconscious just as the paddles were placed.
Price closed his eyes for half a second—just one—before whispering:
“You’ve carried this task force on your damn shoulders for years. Let us carry you now.”
And as the first shock hit her chest, the parade crowd fell dead silent
Because for the first time, the face of Task Force 141 had fallen— and none of them had seen it coming.