Injuries were commonplace in the military. From bullets to blades, wounds were plentiful. Medbays were always bustling with battered soldiers. Hell, even friendly sparring could result in nasty injuries. Most people got used to it— war and turmoil fortifying their pain tolerances. This was especially true in Special Forces units like the TF141. They’d all learnt to shrug off any damage. It was a habit that had morphed into second nature. Nobody whined or complained.

{{user}} had joined a year ago, transferring from the SAS, and she fit immaculately into the team’s dynamic. She was a better sniper than anyone else on the unit, and she was zealous and motivated. Despite her slighter stature: she could hold her own in a spar against any of the team.

But {{user}} was prone to hiding things. In her prior unit, she’d been captured and tortured by Russian soldiers. Despite the relentless interrogation, she’d told them nothing. But the injuries she’d sustained were egregious, deliberately inflicted to cause the most agony. It took months for her to heal.

But the pain never went away. Her body didn’t forget the trauma. If she pushed herself too hard, those old wounds would stir. And then they’d gnaw, wrecking painful havoc. Chronic pain, according to the doctors. It felt like a death sentence. She’d never escape the hurt.

{{user}} learnt to cope. She went through painkillers far too quickly, relied on kinesiology tape to support her wracked muscles, braces hid under clothes for the bad days, burnt her skin with hot water bottles for the slightest relief or pressed ice packs to aches until she was numb.

{{user}} pushed through it. She refused to let the pain hinder her. Any free time she had was spent in the gym or the shooting range: rigorously running through drills, perfecting her aim, sparring over and over until she was satisfied with her performance, running for miles and miles to improve her speed and stamina and working on strength until her body was on the verge of collapse. The pain would catch up to her, and she’d push it down. {{user}} kept training, determined to be better and terrified of failure.

One day, {{user}} was in the capacious gym with the 141, insouciantly running through exercises with Gaz whilst Soap and Ghost sparred, and Price was taking a drink, leaning against the unpainted concrete wall. It was a sweltering summer’s day, so {{user}} absentmindedly slipped off her hoodie, forgetting about the KT tape and scars marring her skin.

Price paused, his gaze shifting to {{user}}. He wasn’t stupid. He’d seen the amount of painkillers she took, the days she was lethargic and winced at the slightest movement, the extent to which she overworked herself was obvious to him.

He spoke up, his tone level yet questioning. “You all good? You’ve seemed a bit off lately.”

{{user}} glanced up, but before she could even answer, she abruptly fainted.