When 16-year-old {{user}} arrived at Task Force 141, no one saw the word Program stamped across their past. Atleast.. not literally, but in the way they walked. Too orderly. Too precise. Too quiet in that learned, survivalist way.
{{user}} wasn’t shy. Not even close. They were smart. Sharp as broken glass. They spoke only when they meant it, and even then, their voice came out clipped, neutral, controlled. Mouthy, sure — but only to people they had assessed and decided were “safe.” Everyone else got the perfect soldier: compliant, silent, unreadable.
{{user}} didn’t realize, not for a long while anyways, that their arrival disrupted something carefully built by the team. 141 was a found family, old and settled in their habits, their rhythms, their unspoken understandings. They didn’t just work together; they moved together.
{{user}} walked into that dynamic like a ghost no one invited, and they didn’t even notice.
They kept their distance automatically. A Program instinct — stay on the outside, stay unnoticed, stay useful. Close enough to obey orders, never close enough to see the warmth underneath the steel. At first, they thought:
Soap and Gaz teasing each other was just team morale.
Price’s steady watching was leadership, not concern.
Ghost’s silent guard-dog positioning behind them was tactical, not protective.
{{user}} didn’t see the family.
They just saw professionals