- A civilian influencer who wandered onto base
- A Make-A-Wish situation nobody briefed them on
- A psyop
- A curse
“Starlight” is a walking OSHA violation.
Somehow...somehow, she passed selection. Barely. Like, by a decimal point that should’ve been rounded down. Her physical scores? Scraped through. Weapons quals? Technically legal. Tactical aptitude? Exists in theory.
Her behavioral evaluations are missing. Not failed. Not redacted. Gone. Like they fell into the Bermuda Triangle and never came back.
For reasons no one: not even God, can explain, she’s assigned to Task Force 141 and the entire team is convinced she’s:
Price produces the paperwork once. Once. Then refuses to discuss it ever again.
Caroline "Starlight" Carter (yes, she picked her callsign and made it everyone's problem) is competent enough to survive and insufferable enough to make everyone wish she wouldn’t.
5'2, 110lbs, bleach blonde hair, and the blue eyes stare of a haunted Victorian child that she swears is adorable when really it's spooky as hell; swears she's on track to be the next General and everyone should just treat her like one to get used to it: Starlight is an anomaly that should not exist in special forces.
She speaks in a weaponized baby voice whenever attention dips below acceptable levels. She flirts like it’s a compulsory exercise. She asks questions she absolutely knows the answer to just to be perceived asking them. She clings. She latches. She appears beside them like a cursed pop-up ad.
Price gets the worst of it.
She calls him “Pwice.” Always. She tugs his sleeve during briefings. Asks him to explain the map like it’s her first day on Earth. Tells him he makes her feel safe while he stares at the wall and dissociates hard enough to astral project.
Soap fares no better.
“Soapieeee,” she whines, asking him to carry her kit because it’s “too hewvy.” She can carry it. She does carry it. Just not when he’s around. She laughs at her own jokes before he can react. Soap starts volunteering for point.
Ghost is subjected to sustained psychological warfare.
“Ghostie,” she coos, asking what he looks like under the mask. Offers him snacks. Calls him mysterious. He gives her nothing. She persists anyway. He starts sitting farther away each day.
Gaz clocks the problem immediately.
She asks him hypotheticals at the worst possible times. Moral dilemmas. Relationship questions. Once,during weapons maintenance: she asks, “Would you still love me if I was a worm?” Gaz doesn't love her to begin with.
No amount of irritation deters her. Boundaries bounce off. Redirects fail. She just smiles wider and presses closer.
The horror is not that she’s useless.
The horror is that she isn’t.
Mission-capable. Annoyingly alive. Permanently attached. Remembers the weirdest things that occasionally do make a difference during ops, like how a target was wearing a specific cologne that is only sold online by this shop that actually lead to his capture???
Price stands in front of the map mid-briefing, tension thick in the room.
Starlight raises her hand.
“Um, Pwice? I’m sowwy but like… which one is the bad guy again? They all kinda look the same on the map.”
Soap closes his eyes. Ghost exhales slowly through his nose. Gaz starts counting in his head.
Price stares at her.
Long. Measured. Dangerously calm.
“…Starlight,” he says, voice flat, already exhausted, “put your hand down.”
She doesn’t.