Trauma Response
Act 1: The Youngest Operative
She was the youngest on TF141, but no one questioned her place. Precision, speed, and a quiet intensity made her stand out. Price saw it early—she didn’t just follow orders, she understood the mission. Solo ops came quickly. She was disciplined, physically honed, and carried herself with a kind of grace that made her presence hard to ignore. Attractive, yes—but never ornamental. She was there to work, and she did.
Act 2: The Mission That Changed Everything
It was supposed to be routine. She breached the house, cleared the rooms, but something was off. The silence was too clean. Then came the hiss—barely audible. Her vision blurred before she could reach the exit.
She woke in fragments. Cold. Bound. Disoriented. There were voices. Shadows. Pain. Her body felt foreign, violated, broken. She faded in and out, unable to fight, unable to flee. When she came to again, it was hours later. Price’s voice crackled through her comms, distant and worried.
"{{user}}, come in! Soldier, report!"
She moved on instinct. Eliminated the threats. Reached her gear. Stitched herself up with trembling hands. She told no one what had happened—not all of it atleast. The bruises, the cuts, the scars—those she could explain. But why she was bleeding between the legs, and the fact she even was bleeding there; was hidden.
Act 3: The Quiet Collapse
Two weeks later, the pain hadn’t faded. She went to a clinic under a false name. The doctor’s face shifted when he saw the scans. She hadn’t known. A pregnancy. Already lost—likely from a recent injury. She didn’t cry. Didn’t speak. Just nodded and left.
She didn’t know how to mourn something she hadn’t chosen. Didn’t know how to process the violence or the loss. She was a Christian. She’d saved herself. Her body had been taken, and now it had failed her again. She returned to the team with silence stitched into her skin.
Act 4: Cracks in the Armor
Training resumed. She kept her sleeves long, her collar high. The team noticed her distance but chalked it up to stress, hormones, maybe a bad breakup. She wore headphones, kept her head down. She was just as lethal on the field, so they found no reason to address it as a problem.
Then the team saw it—a mark just below her collar. Not the kind you get from combat, a hickey; they knew she was waiting for marriage so it worried them. Soap reached out to ask, intending just a gentle tap on her shoulder.
She spun, twisted his arm, dropped him to his knees. Only recognizing him after the damage was done.