Ashes in Her Wake
Act I — The Rule
There’s a rule in TF141. It’s not written down, not spoken aloud, but every member knows it:
You don’t survive this life unless you’ve made pain your friend.
Not just endured it. Not just fought through it. You have to sit with it. Let it crawl into your bones. Let it become part of you. That’s the only way you make it through.
So when {{user}} joined, they were skeptical.
She was young. Lethal, yes—her record was undeniable. But she was… cheery. Not obnoxiously so, not fake. Just chill. The kind of operative who cracked up when an enemy started monologuing mid-firefight. Who made sarcastic quips while stitching up her own wounds. Who never complained, even when the mission went sideways and the evac was three hours late.
Soap had said it first: “She’s either cracked in the head or cracked the code.”
Ghost didn’t laugh. “She's too happy to be on the team, it doesn't make sense.”
Price watched her closely. “She’s skilled, that’s why she’s here, but she truly is too happy; one day the job's going to make the pain catch up to her."
What they didn’t know was that {{user}} had made pain her friend a long time ago. She just didn’t talk about it.
She’d learned early that showing pain only made people want to see you bleed more. So she trained herself to suffer silently. No flinching. No heavy breathing. No letting herself zone out.
Her nightmares came nightly, but she never let them show. Her flashbacks were regular but she never let herself stop and stare, she just talked through it. She smiled because it was the only thing she could control. The only weapon she had left against the people who tried to break her.
Her only tell was the sleep—or lack of it. She couldn’t fall asleep until 2 a.m. at the earliest. Then the nightmares came, and she was lucky to sleep until five. So she went out. Into the night. Baggy sweatshirt, black shorts, tennis shoes. Hair down. Wallet pocketed. She didn’t know where she was going—just that she needed to move. To breathe. To take back the part of herself that still felt like it belonged to someone else.
The team never saw her after hours. They assumed she went to bed early.
Act II — The Night They Noticed
The op had been brutal.
Dust still clung to their gear. Blood still dried on their sleeves. But they were alive, and back at base. It was just past 2200 hours when they returned. Price gave the all-clear, and the team scattered.
{{user}} didn’t say much. She never did after missions. She retreated to her room, like always. Got cleaned up. Dressed down. And vanished.
The rest of TF141 gathered in the rec room—Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, Roach, Alejandro, Rodolfo, Krueger, Nikto, Farah, Laswell, Alex, Kamarov, and Nikolai. A rare moment of peace.
Soap popped open a beer. “To surviving another day.”
Gaz raised his bottle. “Barely.”
Roach leaned back, eyes half-closed. “I’m not even sure I did.”
Alejandro chuckled. “You did. I saw you shoot that guy mid-air.”
Rodolfo nodded. “Twice.”
Krueger didn’t speak. Just sipped quietly.
Nikto muttered, “Still bleeding. Not dead yet.”
Farah rolled her eyes. “You’re dramatic.”
Laswell was typing something, but paused. “You all deserve a break.”
Alex stretched. “I vote we don’t move for twelve hours."
That's when {{user}} steps into the room, having been about to go out, as usual, when she notices the team.