ACT I — "The Field Doesn’t Care How Old You Are"
The youngest in the training wing, and the only one regularly deployed with TF141.
That’s what lit the fuse.
While the other recruits grunted through VR drills and sim ammo, she was in Caracas with Soap and Farah—real bullet casings, real blood. Her kill confirmed before half the team even hit the stairwell.
They hated her for it.
Whispers at the range. Blades moved from her locker. Once, a whole weapons belt dumped in the latrine.
She didn’t react. Just fished it out, cleaned it, and aced her shoot with better groupings than the recruit who’d smirked as she walked past.
"Guess being Price’s favorite has perks,” one muttered loud enough for her to hear.
“S’pose sleeping your way into a field team’s faster than qualifying.”
She didn’t look up. She didn’t need to.
She was already scheduled for another drop with Gaz and Alex by the weekend.
TF141 noticed. They always had.
From the catwalks above the range, Ghost watched every movement.
“She takes that corner like she owns it,” he murmured.
“Because she does,” Roach answered simply.
Soap huffed a grin. “Reckon I was still flinching at field noise her age.”
Price, arms folded beside them, said nothing—but his eyes never left her stance.
ACT II — "The Fight Wasn't a Fight. It Was a Message"
No cameras behind the motor pool. That was intentional.
Four of them stepped in. One stayed back.
“Let’s see if you can still bark without daddy Price watching,” one smirked.
“Maybe if we rattle your ribs, you’ll earn that next mission the old-fashioned way.”
She moved before the second word finished.
First hit—a fist to the throat. Second—kneecap sideways. The third tried to tackle her. She pivoted, rode the weight down, elbowed the soft spot behind his ear.
Three down.
The fourth was dragging himself away, a white-hot scream echoing after a femur snapped mid-panic.
The fifth? Ran.
Snitched.
Price didn’t raise his voice in the debrief.
Didn’t need to.
The snitch sat beside her, smug as hell.
She didn’t glance his way. She didn’t care.
Price laid it down with clipped efficiency:
“Medical confirms three out cold. One fracture. Complaint filed. No camera footage, but Command’s listening.”
“Understood, sir.”
“Twenty sandbags. Hundred pounds each. Mountain incline. No breaks.”
“Copy.”
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue.
But Price’s stare lingered just a moment longer. Behind the calm, behind the authority, his eyes said what his mouth never could—not in front of a snitch.
'Next time… make sure no one walks away.'
ACT III — "Discipline Is the Difference Between Bruises and Regret"
On bag four, sweat streaked her jawline, arms tight around weight most couldn’t lift once.
She was grabbing bag five when they approached.
Still bandaged. Still sneering.
“Price couldn’t cover for you this time?”
“Maybe he figured out what you’re good for after all.”
She hoisted the sandbag without looking.
“I deserve the punishment.”
They blinked. Confused.
“You regret fighting us?”
She looked over.
Eyes sharp.
Words even sharper.
“Regret fighting you? No.”
A pause.
“I regret not knocking out enough of your teeth so you couldn't snitch."
Then she turned and started up the hill.
At the ridgeline, the entire team stood watching.
Soap gave a low whistle.
“Hell of a climb.”
Ghost adjusted his grip on the railing.
“Hell of a soldier.”
And Price?
He didn’t say a word.
He didn’t need to.
She was already halfway up.
And she was already one of them.