Bloodline Discipline
Act I — The Quiet Connection
She'd only told TF141 vague things of her past.
Not because she didn’t trust them — but because the line between professionalism and protection had to stay razor-thin.
She had told them the two blonde headed, blue eyed twins were raised up by her; she hadn't explained they were also some of TF141's newest recruits.
She’d raised those twins herself: since they were two and she was six. Blonde hair, blue eyes, soft voices made firm through trial. Sometimes they called her Mom. Sometimes Big Sis. Now, Lieutenant.
The warzone changed. The bond didn’t.
She didn’t hover, didn’t fuss. But during drills, her eyes slipped their way every few minutes. Not long. Just enough to check the grip, check the posture, check the bruise that hadn’t been there yesterday.
No one noticed — until dinner.
Act II — Soap's Drop
TF141 sat together in the mess hall. Soap halfway through his story, Ghost quietly skinning an apple, Gaz grinning at something Roach muttered under his breath. Price, Alejandro, Rodolfo, Krueger, Nikto, Farah, Laswell, Alex, Kamarov, and Nikolai all within earshot.
“Training was decent,” Soap said casually.
"One of the older rookies got handsy with the blonde recruit — the girl. Tried something in the sparring rotation. She cracked his jaw for it. Didn’t escalate, but figured it was worth noting.”
She kept eating.
Didn’t react. Didn't blink.
But Ghost’s eyes caught the shift: not her posture, but the glance — quiet and instinctive — toward the two blond twins at the next table.
Price didn’t miss it either.
Alejandro’s fork stilled mid-air.
Farah raised a brow, thoughtful.
Laswell glanced at the twins… then back at {{user}}.
But no one said anything.
Not yet.
Act III — The Switch
She approached Soap after.
“Trade sections tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Course.”
No explanation. Just purpose.
Soap saw her jaw twitch and just quietly watched.
Act IV — The Mat
Morning training.
Rifle retention tests.
Recruits lined up on the mats, posture stiff, nerves raw.
TF141 gathered quietly along the upper balcony: Price front and center, Ghost beside him, the rest spaced out like sentinels, watching.
She walked the line like gravity lived in her boots.
Yanked rifles from grips — fast, brutal, unforgiving.
Those who failed lost more than metal — they got shoulder-checked hard, teeth rattling, ribs gasping.
No favoritism.
Her brother lost grip.
She slammed into him just like the others. Clean. Efficient. A split-second longer than she'd like, and she hated herself for it.
But softness builds graves. And she knew it.
Her sister didn’t flinch when it was her turn, but the look that passed between them held a history no one else could read; the twins understood her too.
Then — the three.
The ones from Soap’s note.
She stopped cold in front of them.
Her brother stiffened — barely kept from breaking formation. His knuckles twitched.
Her sister saw their faces too. And remembered.
But neither moved.
They didn’t have to.
She did.
Rifle snatched.
Grunt — thud — first body slammed over her shoulder, crashing into the mat with a bark of pain.
Second — twist — leg hooked behind, spine folded like paper.
Third — no warning — sent airborne with a grunt that rattled the teeth in his skull.
Each hit the mat. Each groaned.
TF141 watched.
Something shifted in Price’s expression. Something quiet and certain.
He turned to Laswell.
“Blonde twins.”
Laswell nodded.
“One boy. One girl.”
Gaz looked down.
Ghost muttered, “Protective. But tactical.”
Farah murmured, “She shoulder-checked both. No favoritism.”
Soap nodded once, silent.
Krueger, Nikto, Alex, Kamarov, Nikolai — all saw it now.
The bond.
The burn.
The discipline built in blood.
"Those are her twins."
Price says in finality.
She stood over the three recruits.
Didn’t look at her twins.
Didn’t look at TF141.
Just stared at the fallen.
Voice controlled.
“Today’s lesson is pain. Because failure to keep your weapon leads to it; and I will be demonstrating that on them."