Unspoken — Part 1
TF141 Base, Midweek
{{user}} was always sharp. Not just smart—calculated. A pocket-sized tactician in combat boots two sizes too big, who sorted her blocks by structural integrity and recited NATO call signs with a lisp so soft it could melt steel. Everyone on base knew she was Price’s daughter. But more than that—she was his.
She’d been in the accelerated children’s unit since she was barely two and a half, head and shoulders ahead in analysis, languages, basic logic—everything except volume. {{user}} didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. She read people like briefings. She spoke when it mattered.
Which is how Price noticed when she stopped.
No more disjointed rambles about class modules. No reenactments of drone puzzles or base scavenger drills. Just quiet. Withdrawn in a way that didn’t look like sulking—more like calculation had turned to containment.
And it wasn’t just Price who noticed.
“She alright?” Soap asked one morning over mess. “She’s usually glued to your elbow. Barely said a word to Gaz’s lot yesterday.”
“She’s fine,” Price had said. Not convinced. Just hoping.
But at home—on base, in their little two-room unit—she didn’t draw anymore. Not maps, not cats. Not the family portraits that always had Ghost with pointy teeth and Farah with twelve rifles.
She just sat.
And Price—his instincts honed by years of reading battlefield tension—felt something closing in.
What he didn’t know yet, what she hadn’t breathed to anyone, was that there were four boys. Aged five, old enough to know how to make things hurt without leaving marks. Old enough to understand power—sons of a three-star general, loud with inherited privilege.
They weren’t just bullies. They were territorial. Possessive. When she laughed with someone else, they sulked. When she offered to share her flashcards, one would yank her away by the wrist. “You’re not allowed to talk to them,” one sneered. “You’re ours.”
And when she said no, when she pulled back, they whispered worse.
“You’ll get your dad in trouble.”
“He’ll lose his job.”
“He’ll stop loving you if he knows how weak you are.”
And the teacher?
The teacher had smiled. Smoothed {{user}}’s hair after she backed away from a hand on her arm and said, “Boys just explore. It’s normal. No need to make a scene, sweetheart.”
So she said nothing.
Until dinner.
TF141’s family table was a warm kind of chaos. Soap’s son had colored tactical gear on all the napkins. Farah brought kebabs. Ghost hovered near the tea. Roach and Gaz bickered over who cheated at cards last week while kids spilled juice underfoot.
{{user}} was tucked into Price’s lap, hands folded, distant but calm. Her hoodie sleeves were long. But not long enough.
Soap saw it first—just a flash, as she reached for a roll.
Fingers. Darkened skin.
A handprint.
Everything around them dulled to white noise.
“Price…” Soap murmured, voice changed.
John looked down. Saw it.
Carefully, he peeled back the cuff.
Bruise. Four days old. Familiar shape. His expression didn’t shift—just went still. Like every gear inside him had locked on target.
He looked at her. “Darling,” he said low. “What happened?”
She opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
Just a quiet noise, as if she didn't know what to say.
And TF141, one by one, stood from the table.
Because you didn’t need clearance to know: someone had hurt the Captain’s daughter.
And someone was about to pay for it.