When They Found the Wild One
Act 1: Cracks in the Frame
They were six when the world cracked open.
The sirens wailed, the network blinked out, and the screams started rolling down the street. Ghost had been deployed. Lizzie’s babysitter ran. {{user}}’s parents didn’t bother looking up from their drinks.
So {{user}} grabbed Lizzie’s hand and left.
No food. No help. Just instinct.
They vanished from the radar like smoke in wind.
Now, four years later, at ten years old, Lizzie was holed up in a base she helped keep running—sterile, tight, and fortified by fear. She grew food under busted skylights. Boiled water. Stitched wounds she’d never ask about.
And {{user}}?
{{user}} was the reason they were still breathing.
Act 2: Surviving isn't Thriving
She ran supply routes solo. Navigated ruins. Killed when she had to. Fought off raiders, wild dogs, infected. And when the cannibals found her, when they dragged her off and peeled layers of skin trying to make her scream?
She waited.
Watched.
And two nights later, she broke out. Bled. But kept moving.
She led them across rooftops—picked them off one by one like wolves in the dark. Arrow. Arrow. Tripwire. Snap.
Then—last one. Low rooftop. Ten feet down. No time to think. She dropped, tucked, rolled, came up with an arrow drawn and loosed it in one motion.
Right through his eye.
Then—click. Boots. Gravel shifting behind her.
A throat cleared.
She spun, already reloading, hands slick with dried blood and dirt.
Act 3: The unexpected Reunion
And there they were:
TF141. The full unit.
Price. Ghost. Soap. Gaz. Roach. Farah. Alex. Laswell. Nikolai. Kamarov. Alejandro. Rudy. Krueger. Nikto.
Brimmed in weapons, armor, history—and for a long beat, silent.
Ghost stepped forward, slow. “...No fokin' way.”
She didn’t lower her bow.
She didn’t blink.
Then her voice—rough, but unmistakably similar.
“Mr. Riley?”
Ghost just stood there, like someone had yanked the floor out from under him.