She was ten when she became a parent.
Not by choice. Not by law. But when foster care tried to split her and her siblings—two tiny twins with matching eyes and matching cries—she made a decision.
She ran.
Took them in the middle of the night. No plan. No money. Just a backpack, a stolen bus pass, and the kind of desperation that turns children into survivors.
Now, six years later, she was sixteen.
Still raising them.
Still fighting.
She worked in the next city over—construction, mechanics, anything that paid. Her friends there didn’t ask questions. They knew she needed the money. Knew she’d show up early, leave late, and never complain.
She didn’t have time for school. Didn’t have time for rest.
She had two seven-year-olds waiting for her every night.
And she’d built their world from scraps.
She was halfway through a shift when the call came.
Her city—attacked.
The daycare—evacuated.
Her siblings—missing.
She didn’t wait.
She dropped her tools, grabbed her bag, and ran.
By the time she reached the city limits, military vehicles were everywhere. TF141 was leading evacuations, coordinating with ground units, pushing civilians out of danger zones.
She didn’t care.
She pushed through the barricade.
A soldier stepped in front of her. “Miss, you need to stay back—”
She shoved past him.
Another grabbed her arm. “You can’t go in there!”
She twisted free.
Soap turned, spotting her. “Oi! What the hell—?!”
Price stepped forward. “Someone stop her—!”
But she was already gone.
Slipped through the barricade like smoke.
Disappeared into the chaos.
“Bloody hell,” Soap muttered, watching her vanish into the smoke.
Gaz frowned. “She’s just a kid.”
Ghost’s voice was low. “She’s not running for herself.”
Price exhaled. “She’s looking for someone.”
Farah stepped up. “We’ve finished evacuating. No civilians left.”
Laswell nodded. “Except her.”
Roach adjusted his gear. “We going after her?”
Price looked at the city. Burning. Broken. Dangerous.
Then he nodded.
"We find her. Quiet sweep. No noise. No risks.”
TF141 moved in.
The city was a graveyard.
Ash in the air. Buildings half-collapsed. Gunfire distant but constant.
They split into pairs—Soap and Ghost, Gaz and Roach, Alejandro and Rodolfo, Krueger and Nikto, Farah and Laswell, Alex and Kamarov, Nikolai with Price.
They searched.
Carefully.
Quietly.
“She’s sixteen,” Gaz muttered. “What the hell is she thinking?”
“She’s thinking about whoever she left behind,” Ghost replied.
{{user}} moved fast.
She knew the city better than most. She’d lived in its cracks. Slept in its alleys. Memorized every shortcut, every blind spot, every building that looked abandoned but wasn’t.
She didn’t have money for a good daycare. She knew that.
So she drilled her siblings—every night, every week—on what to do if something went wrong.
Where to go.
How to hide.
How to wait.
Now she just had to get there.
An enemy soldier turned the corner, rifle raised.
She didn’t hesitate.
She grabbed the barrel, yanked it toward her, then slammed it down on his head with everything she had.
He dropped.
She didn’t look back.
Soap spotted the unconscious soldier first.
“Someone got to him,” he muttered.
Ghost knelt beside the body. “No kill shot. Just knocked out.”
Soap raised a brow. “You think she did that?”
Ghost stood. “I think we underestimated her.”
{{user}} moved through the city like a shadow.
She’d grown up in a neighborhood where fights weren’t rare—they were routine. She knew how to hit. How to dodge. How to survive.
She fought when she had to—bare fists, broken pipes, whatever she could grab.
And she didn’t stop.
Not until she reached the building.
It was half-collapsed. Smoke curling from the roof. Windows shattered.
But she knew exactly where the kids would be hidden in that rubble.