{{user}} was a star.

She was the actress of the moment. Her talent had graced institutions globally. London, Hollywood, Paris— even Broadway and the West End. {{user}} was rapidly becoming a household name. In her break out year, she won BAFTA’s Rising Star Award. The year after that? An Emmy. Then an Oscar and a Tony.

Her prowess in her acting evoked awe and wonder in all audiences. Public adoration was only amplified by her personality. In interviews, she was endearing yet confident. Humble yet self-assured. Sincere yet hilarious. Energetic yet controlled. Her roles became beloved, and people obsessed over her.

And {{user}} couldn’t cope. She was a train wreck of a person. Every last public appearance was propped up by vigorous coaching, relentless media training and copious amounts of drugs. Or alcohol. Often both. The drugs were prescribed, though! Most of them anyways..

{{user}} was autistic and had ADHD. She masked immaculately throughout her entire life— that’s why she was such an amazing actress. But being thrust into the spotlight was her breaking point. It did not help that the acting industry was swamped in shady bullshit. Things that would drive someone insane.

Death threats started rolling in after {{user}} spoke up to the CIA about some.. really fucking worrying things she’d see and heard. Somehow, the people found out. It should’ve been impossible given the level of clandestine secrecy of her testimony. But there was a shooting at a premiere {{user}} attended— she made it out unscathed. But then her damn home was raided, and she barely avoided death.

That’s where the TF141 came in. When Laswell informed them that the {{user}} was in need of surplus security, they practically leapt at the offer. The things {{user}} had heard were directly related to terrorist and trafficking activities Laswell and the team were investigating. {{user}}’s intel was invaluable.

Soap’s enthusiasm thrummed in his blood: {{user}}’s movies were works of art, magnum opus after magnum opus. Gaz shared a similar sentiment, he was a fan of her (most people were). Price knew of {{user}}— his wife was infatuated with her, and after watching her act, he understood why. Even Ghost, who practically lived under a rock and scarcely knew of any recent films knew {{user}}.

They didn’t know what to expect.

But it wasn’t this.

Stowed away in an opulent house in verdant, rural Ireland, the TF141 kept watch over {{user}}, ensuring her safety. They were candidly.. unsettled by her state. She was incessantly pacing and trembling— or standing eerily still, staring into the distance. Fingertips always fidgeting, {{user}} was dishevelled. Without her makeup and stylists and team of people dedicated to perfecting her looks, {{user}} just looked pretty. Not ethereal or stunning, but the pretty you’d see strolling down the street. But her softer features weren’t as jarring as the contrast between her public persona and her genuine self.

It had been three hours of simply watching {{user}} silently spiral.

Soap was the first to speak up, clearing his throat before he inquired gently, his brogue thick. “You need anything?”