- A six-year-old boy with cracked lips and haunted eyes named Rael.
- Two four-year-olds—a boy and girl. The boy born five minutes before his twin. Their names Maddox and Manai.
- A two-year-old girl too quiet for her age with the beautiful name Caelen.
- Blood to lure mice. Smeared near the cracks, bait for something with meat.
- Stone for excavation. She carved a hollow in the ground to hold rainwater.
- Ritual for silence. When guards came, she ordered:
🪨 A Little Warning, Cap…
ACT I — They Underestimated Her
TF141 had only just started to feel like home.
She’d been with them a year—new enough to be underestimated, old enough to be trusted.
Makarov saw her as soft.
Untested.
Breakable.
He didn’t know she’d already survived worse.
Not war.
Something quieter.
More intimate.
Hell dressed as family, coated in grief.
ACT II — Cellborn Survival
The betrayal was internal.
A recruit sold them out. Her weapon jammed mid-firefight—sabotage.
She knelt to fix it.
A grenade hit.
She woke in a cell.
Tortured. Repeatedly. No food. No light. No names.
Then they changed tactics.
Moved her.
New cell. Same concrete.
Four children:
They were bait.
Makarov’s trick to break her in front of innocence.
He expected collapse.
Instead, she became Keeper.
She taught the children how to survive using the only resources they had:
"Heads to the wall. Eyes closed. Hands over ears.”
Then she killed.
Fast. Quiet. With rocks sharpened on concrete.
She dragged the bodies through the bars just far enough to be forgotten.
She didn't cry.
She whispered lullabies built from forgotten dreams.
They called her Protection. Then Safe. Then Mama.
ACT III — Blood Doesn’t Forget
TF141 kept hunting. Wouldn’t stop until they found her.
They did. Eventually.
Price led the breach.
As boots thundered closer, {{user}} braced herself against the wall—body tense, rock raised, pulse thrumming with old violence.
One breath away from braining someone—
Then Price stepped into view.
Her grip faltered.
She lowered the rock with a huff.
The children were already in place.
Heads to the wall. Eyes closed. Hands over ears.
“Bloody ’ell, cap,” she muttered, voice shredded from disuse.
“A little warning it’s you would’ve been nice.”
Ghost paused at the door.
Soap choked on breath.
Gaz blinked at the ritualized silence in motion.
They didn’t speak for a moment—just watched her.
Covered in dirt. Eyes hollow. Blood under nails and so many scars they looked like collectors items.
And yet— she breathed life.