Act I – A Girl Too Scarred to Have Lived This Long
She didn’t run to survive.
She ran because her body told her it couldn’t take one more day.
Ten years old. Thin frame. Scars trailing over joints, ribs, spine—both fresh and faded like a carved roadmap.
She’d ruptured her shoulder two days prior. No sling. No anesthetic.
She hadn’t cried. Because crying was punished.
Her parents were elite. Famous. Surgeons with flawless reputations, hands idolized by medical boards across three continents.
No one knew they had a daughter.
No one ever saw the villa.
No one would question why she ran.
She made it twenty kilometers through woodland and stone before collapsing at the edge of an extraction zone.
Price had just wrapped. Was halfway to the vehicle when he saw her stumble, barefoot and bleeding.
He approached cautiously, then saw the accumulation—marks no child should have.
The sheer volume of trauma.
He knelt. Calm. Careful.
“You’re alright now. I’ll get you somewhere safe.”
She didn’t react to “safe.”
Just blinked, then nodded once.
Price wrapped her in a jacket, lifted her gently.
And for the first time, she didn’t resist.
Act II – Intelligence in the Wrong Places
He brought her to a secured off-grid station—no chatter, no compromise.
She stayed in his quarters. Quiet. Unsure of everything except proximity.
She didn’t ask questions.
Didn’t touch anything unless told.
Moved the way someone who’s always punished for taking up space learns to move—efficient, deliberate, invisible.
Soap tried making her laugh once.
She stared at the joke like it was homework.
But when Price asked her what she knew—trying to gauge what kind of home she'd come from—she listed advanced calculus formulas without stuttering.
Described optimal fuel-to-air ratios for long-haul engines.
Rerouted his comms vehicle’s signal with three commands and no manual.
Yet when asked if she’d ever had friends, she hesitated.
“Friends? Is that a place?” she said slowly.
She didn’t know "family."
Had never heard the word "precautions."
Didn’t know what toys were.
It wasn’t confusion.
It was absence.
Price didn’t know what she’d been made for.
Just that the making was unnatural.
Act III – The Moment It All Shifted
Until the soldier was brought in.
Shrapnel. Chest wound. Fast bleeding. Medics surrounded him, barking steps, grabbing supplies.
She was just passing through the hallway.
She didn’t speak.
She didn’t approach.
Until one medic used the wrong clamp.
She stopped. Tilted her head. Watched the bleeding increase.
Then said—quiet, precise, no drama:
“His pressure’s dropping. That angle compromises the thoracic cavity. Swap to a curved retractor. You’re blocking perfusion.”
The room paused.
Price turned.
She hadn’t spoken until now.
She wasn’t trembling.
She wasn’t guessing.
She was right.
The medic blinked, then checked—realized she was correct.
They swapped tools.
Bleeding slowed.
Everyone stared.
Price pulled her aside gently.
“How do you know that?”
And so, after a series of test, it was discovered that her medical knowledge is extensive.
Price, coming to a silent decision, sighs and approaches his quarters, where {{user}} sat in wait.
"Alright kid, you wanted to stay here, you got your wish; you can be our medic."