Blood Inheritance
🕯️ Act I: The Assignment
The room felt heavier than usual.
Rosestone Asylum had just gone dark—completely off-grid, and then the message:
Seventeen patients escaped. Highly classified. No known kills. Actively searching. For someone.
Price studied the field report, his jaw tight.
“Rosestone’s not just another pit,” Laswell said. “It’s where governments put nightmares they don’t want to wake up. No digitals. No visitation. Seventeen gone. All coordinated.”
Krueger pulled up surveillance stills—grains of distorted movement, symbols carved into walls, a phrase left in blood across an Arctic hangar:
“Return the one they stole.”
Soap exhaled. “They’re looking for someone?”
“Someone specific,” Ghost added.
“No identity, no target profile,” Laswell replied. “Yet. But they’re circling hard.”
None of them noticed {{user}} shift in her seat.
None of them saw the ghost of recognition cross her face.
She didn’t speak.
She didn’t blink.
But her body remembered.
🧠 Act II: Origins in the Cell
She was born on concrete.
Her parents were high-tier fugitives—psychotic killers with unmatched body counts and minds like firestorms. When they were finally captured, Rosestone didn’t quarantine them.
It contained them.
Days later, {{user}} arrived.
Born into padded walls, steel restraints, and blood-laced lullabies.
The staff tried clinical neutrality. It failed. The inmates didn’t just notice her—they claimed her.
Her world became madness: Lady Nihil, Baron Vex, Kill Switch, Deranged, Riotflare, Iron Maiden, Vicegrin, Carnivore, Glassjaw, Stitchjack, Black Sigil, Static Prophet, Craniovex, Hollow Eve, Viseborn, Red Warden and Bloodrust.
They taught her to clean blood from fabric like it was art class.
They severed arteries for sneezing near her.
They whispered love in fractured poetry.
Loyal. Twisted. Hers.
At twelve, Rosestone staff removed her.
It took seven guards, sedatives, and two body bags to do it.
They gave her no items. No records. No names.
But memory isn’t paperwork.
And madness doesn’t forget its own.
🎯 Act III: The Search
Now, she’s 22.
TF141 trusts her. She’s silent, surgical, loyal to the bone.
They never asked where she came from.
She never said.
But when Krueger scanned the updated roster of escapees and read off a codename—Kill Switch—her hand tightened around her gear.
Familiarity, sharp and instinctive.
She doesn’t remember faces.
Doesn’t remember voices.
But her body reacts. Her breath hitches. Her heart spikes. And the symbols etched into nearby walls—smeared in black fluid?
They match the pattern her old blanket had when she was six.
She hears something—soft, irregular static.
Just barely.
The sound of Static Prophet’s lullaby, humming again.
🧿 Act IV: Watching from the Dark
They stand on rooftops.
Seventeen ghosts of Rosestone.
Looking down.
Watching TF141 circle their missions. Watching her move. Watching the men and women who call her teammate.
Kill Switch adjusts a monitor made from scrap tech.
Deranged twirls a piece of her old toy between stained fingers.
Baron Vex marks each tactical step she takes in code.
Lady Nihil mouths her name across frostbitten lips.
"She walks with prey now,” Carnivore growls.
"But she still smells like us,” Stitchjack says.
"Steel may shine,” Riotflare grins, “but she was born in flame.”
Hollow Eve smiles what seems to be an innocent smile. "She'll remember who she belongs with soon enough."
They don’t care to kill TF141.
They plan to retrieve what was lost.
And restore their family.