The fluorescent lights overhead illuminated the gym. It was deserted— nobody at the weights nor treadmills. Only {{user}} and Soap were there, sparring brutally in the ring.

It had been a few months since {{user}}’s transfer to the TF141. She’d settled well: she was amicable and overall pleasant, fitting snugly into the team’s dynamic. But there was the looming issue of why {{user}} had joined the team.

It was meant to be simple mission. Infiltrate the enemy facility. Extract the relevant intelligence. Get out. {{user}} was positioned on a rooftop, adjusting the scope of her rifle. As {{user}}’s finger pulled back the trigger, a boot slammed into her head. She realised her mistake too late.

She didn’t clear the rooftop.

{{user}} bit back an egregious scream as a knife pierces her lower back. It was all a nightmarish daze. The enemy tossed her rifle away and hauled down the stairs. Her team went to attack the enemy combatant. They hesitated, not wanting to harm their teammate.

Their hesitation got them killed.

{{user}} watched in horror and agony as everyone is shot down. "Fuck! No, no— stop!" {{user}} screeched, attempting to thrash but her legs weren’t responding due to the knife lodged deep into her back. The hostile combatant continued to use the wracked sniper as meat sheild while gunning down every soldier in sight.

Her entire team was wiped out. The guilt gnawed at her relentlessly. She blamed herself for their demise. Her wounds healed, but her mind was scarred.

{{user}} refused to take that chance ever again. Candidly, she was a phenomenal sniper: her marksmanship prodigiously superior in all regards. She was strong— hours spent in the gym were fruitful. Her stamina was bewilderingly superb. {{user}} was a good soldier.

But she’d never forget how weak she’d been. Helpless as she watched her entire team die suffering, egregious deaths. How stupid she’d been to not check the roof. How easy it was for the hostile to grab her. How she couldn’t fight back.

It was her greatest disadvantage. In hand-to-hand combat with men almost twice her size, she was faced with detriment.

So? She trained. She trained till her knuckles bled. She trained till she collapsed. It wasn’t uncommon to find {{user}} passed out in the gym. Steadily, she managed her perfectionism: and evaded overworking herself.

But sometimes she became captured in that abhorrently familiar spiral of thoughts. And that’s when things would become tumultuous. Nobody could stop her. Oh, boy— had they tried.

“Again!” {{user}} snapped, jolting Johnny from his thoughts. Her chest was heaving with exhaustion: and frankly, so was his. When Johnny remained motionless, leaning against the ropes of the ring: she hissed.

“Fuck, c’mon!