Act I – Orders Are Easy. This Part Isn’t.
The operation was loud.
TF141 stormed the trafficking compound like a freight train—steel, focus, no mercy. Price gave short, sharp commands. Ghost and Soap broke the perimeter wide. Gaz held rear security, Farah ran evac coordination. Krueger, Nikto, and Roach cleared the shipping routes while Alejandro and Rodolfo tackled upper floors. Laswell and the rest monitored every heat signature on satellite—no blind spots, no stragglers.
But the moment the last gunfire faded, Price turned toward {{user}}.
“Go find the ones they were keeping. You’re the best tracker we’ve got.”
And he was right.
Her steps were silent.
Her eyes scanned for trails no one else noticed—disturbed dust, scuffed hinges, breath caught in silence. She slipped past the loading bays and into the storage unit labeled Transit B-12.
Dozens of cages.
Adults. Teenagers. And children.
She opened the cages, calling quietly, guiding them toward safety one by one. Families ran. Older kids cried. Parents clutched children, hands trembling.
But when everyone cleared out nine kids stayed back.
Not because they couldn’t walk.
Because they had no one to walk with.
Act II – No One Claimed Them, So She Did
They didn’t speak. Not one word.
Just stood there in the wreckage—dust clinging to skin, knees scabbed, eyes hollow.
The oldest, boys, Raiden and Calix, seven-years-old, tried to stand tall in front of the others.
Three six-year-olds, three boys, Maverick, Maddox and Matteo, squeezed each other’s hands.
Four-year-old twins—the older boy, Emiliano, shielding his sister, Emery.
A three-year-old boy, Axle, who couldn’t meet her eyes.
And a one-year-old girl, Mira, still trying to rock herself to sleep in a corner.
They were quiet, but it didn’t feel empty.
It felt like a test.
Like they were waiting to see what she’d do.
So {{user}} didn’t ask questions.
She simply lifted the smallest girl gently.
Held out her hand to the others.
They followed.
She got them on the final evac jet—sat between them the whole flight. Ghost kept watch. Soap handed out water bottles. Price didn’t speak, but stayed close.
No one tried to separate them.
No one could.
Act III – Nine Shadows and One Steady Light
Back at base, TF141 moved fast—reaching out to case officers, cross-referencing databases, checking child records for living relatives.
Nothing came up.
Laswell scanned the orphanage reports, scowled.
“They weren’t just abandoned. They were sold.”
“Sold?” Soap echoed.
"Orphanage had a deal. Placement forms were forged. They handed kids off to traffickers directly.”
The room went silent.
And then—
{{user}} said it out loud.
"They’re not going back.”
Everyone agreed.
But what next?
The kids didn’t talk. Not really. Just clung to {{user}} like a gravity well. They’d curl up around her boots at briefing tables. Follow her to morning drills, eyes barely open. Sit beside her in the mess, even if they didn’t eat. They liked TF141, but it was {{user}} they attached themselves to.
She didn’t know how to handle it.
She was twenty-two. A soldier. Single. Her parents were institutionalized when she was six—madness had been her blueprint.
She didn’t know lullabies.
Didn’t know what meals children liked.
Didn’t know if she was doing any of it right.
Didn't know how to mother, only what not to do.