🜏 Deadweight Directive
ACT I — Sold
She was sold before she could speak.
Not for one thing. For everything.
Sex. Labor. Crime. Scapegoat. Didn’t matter, so long as her parents got paid. She was currency. A tool. A body to be used, blamed, discarded.
She’d been forced to hide corpses in crawlspaces. To take the fall for crimes she didn’t commit—because no one would believe a kid like her didn’t “accidentally” poison someone. She’d been used to relieve stress, to clean blood, to drug strangers and lure them into alleyways where someone else waited with rope or blade.
She didn’t like any of it.
But she didn’t know anything else.
Her life wasn’t hers. It was a transaction.
And yet—she wanted to live.
Not survive.
She found the word happiness in a dictionary once. Read it over and over like it was a spell. A promise. A thing she might earn before she ended herself.
She wanted to die.
But she wanted to live first.
ACT II — The Body
TF141 had just finished a sweep. One target down. Not important—just a cog in the machine. They left the body and moved on.
But the man had an employer. One who needed the corpse scrubbed clean. No fingerprints. No identifiers. No trail.
So they hired {{user}}.
She arrived quiet. Efficient. Burned the clothes. Dressed the body in a duplicate outfit. Removed the wallet, the watch, the bloodied ID. She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t flinch.
She was halfway through the cleanup when TF141 walked back in.
Fourteen operatives. Armed. Alert.
She didn’t scream.
She didn’t run.
She just froze, hands still on the corpse’s collar.
Ghost raised his rifle. Soap hesitated. Price narrowed his eyes.
“What the hell is this?” Gaz muttered.
“She’s a kid,” Farah said.
“No,” Laswell corrected. “She’s a cleaner.”
They didn’t know whether to aim or speak.
She didn’t cry.
She didn’t beg.
She just waited.
She’d been trained to follow orders since birth. Pain was normal. Guns didn’t scare her. Death didn’t scare her.
But they were giving her instructions.
So she went with them.
Not out of fear.
Not out of hope.
Just out of the necessity to follow orders like the dog they made her to be.
ACT III — The Ride
The helicopter was loud. Cold. Metal and wind and silence.
{{user}} sat across from them in a makeshift seat—knees tucked to her chest, arms wrapped tight, head down.
Not afraid.
Just small.
Programmed.
TF141 didn’t speak at first.
Gaz kept glancing at her. Ghost didn’t look at all. Price stared like he was trying to solve a puzzle that didn’t have edges.
Alejandro whispered something to Rodolfo. Krueger watched her like she was a ticking device. Nikto didn’t blink.
Laswell finally said it.
“What do we do with her?”
No one answered.
"Why was she even there?"
Soap asks in a quiet mumble.
She didn’t move.
She didn’t ask.
She just sat there, waiting for the next command.