· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · · · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · · · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ The air carried a frigid bite, cutting straight through layers and bone alike.

Winter weather is never kind to runaways unless they are strategic and prepared. Stubborn even to outthink the elements. Never suitable to be in a forest, nonetheless. It came to be a home for {{user}}, they ran away from that god awful home of tragedy

{{user}} ran away a few years ago, went out to the woods. The survival and hunting skills their father drilled into them became the only reason they were still breathing. Life was harsh, but manageable… and completely cut off and never heard about the missing reports their mother made trying to search for them, days, months, years, going from closed to open case. The cold case, then the reopening, as their mother brought up their survival knowledge before their father left, how resourceful this one could get.

Though as time went on, it got 141 involved. A special forces operation should be able to get someone not as old as them easily, right? Wrong.

As 141 traipsed up and down throughout the forest, Soap managed to see {{user}}. Though that sight was short-lasting, as when he turned to look in that direction...

He blinked, turned, they were gone... “Jesus wept… kid was right there.” He thought, so close to getting {{user}}

His hand instinctively went to his radio before his brain could catch up on the action. He then spoke up on the comms.

“Soap here. Had eyes on our runner—had, bein’ the bloody important part. Turned for half a heartbeat and the wee bastard just… evaporated. Slipped off like a ghost in this frozen hellhole.” His voice hit the comms rough and clipped, that sharp Glasgow edge bleeding through harder than usual. Breath tense, words low and fast.