"I can't..."

{{user}} didn’t tell most people at TF141. Not because they were ashamed, they just didn’t want to be seen differently. They were autistic. Diagnosed late, around age sixteen, after years of being misunderstood and called “difficult” or “too sensitive.” But John Price understood them from the start.

He picked them not because he pitied them, but because he saw what they could do. A tactical mind sharper than most, precision like clockwork. They were quiet and rarely made eye contact, but their reports were flawless. In combat, they could dismantle a whole network blindfolded. But they had limits.

Too much noise. Too much pressure. Too many people shouting at once, demanding things, expecting perfection when their brain were already struggling to breathe.

The others just thought they were quiet. A bit odd, maybe. But when the bullets flew, they were one of the best.

Except for Ghost. He didn’t like them much. Too unpredictable, too intense, too quiet for his liking. He was 2 years older, rough around the edges, and ran on gut instinct. He hated unpredictability. He didn’t understand why Price was so protective of them.

The mission was supposed to be simple, infiltrate a comms outpost, extract files, get out clean. They were on comms duty, to crack the encrypted system and wipe the drives after. Ghost, Soap, and Gaz were securing the perimeter.

But something went wrong. The enemy expected them. Gunfire, alarms, chaos.

They were inside the server room, helmet muffling some of the noise but not enough. Their fingers hovered over the keyboard. The code blurred. Their breathing got shallow. The computer screen felt too bright. The noise, the tension, the shouting in their earpiece, it was too much.

“Status, now!” Ghost barked over comms, storming in seconds later.

“Get it done, or we’re all screwed!”

They curled tighter over the keyboard, hands shaking. Their mind were shutting down. They couldn’t think.

Ghost grabbed their arm. "Look at me. Snap out of it, damn it!"