Running Through your Veins
Act I — The Unshaken
She was TF141’s most promising recruit. Young. Quiet. Lethal.
She didn’t flinch at blood. Didn’t blink at death. She moved like she’d already seen the worst the world had to offer and decided it wasn’t worth reacting to.
Price called her “solid.”
Ghost called her “stone.”
Soap said, “She’s got ice in her veins.”
No one knew why.
She never told them.
Until April 12th.
Act II — The Date That Doesn’t Fade
April 12th meant nothing to anyone else.
To {{user}}, it was the day her parents finally broke.
She was tenser than usual. Her movements tighter. Her voice quieter. She didn’t eat much. Didn’t speak unless spoken to. No one pressed her. TF141 respected silence when it came wrapped in steel.
That night, the barracks were quiet. Everyone asleep.
Ghost made his usual rounds. A habit. A precaution.
Then he heard it.
A sound—soft, strained. Not a struggle. Not a fight. But something wrong.
He called the team in quietly. No alarms. No weapons drawn. Just readiness.
They followed the sound to {{user}}’s bunk.
She was asleep.
But not still.
Act III — The Nightmare
She twitched. Her breath hitched. Her fingers curled around the edge of her blanket like it was a lifeline.
Then she mumbled.
“Get off…”
Her body shifted, recoiling from something invisible. Her face twisted—not in fear, but in resistance.
A man loomed over her, belt halfway undone. Her child-self struggled, small hands pushing against his chest.
She whimpered.
“Not her…” as if in disbelief, she whispers that.
Her hand jerked slightly, as if reacting to pain.
A glass of water spilled. Her mother’s eyes changed—from kind to wrong, something she's seen too many times from her parents. A fork jabbed through her tiny palm. Blood. Pain.
“Not her…” she repeated, quieter.
A phone call. Her mother slurring. “Come get me, baby.” Six-year-old {{user}} walking alone to a club. A drunk man’s hand on her thigh.
“Don’t touch please…” a mumble.
Her legs twitched. Her fingers curled into fists.
A sippy cup. Her mother’s smile too wide. The liquid inside smelled wrong. Her stomach turned.
“Painful juice…” she murmured in her sleep.
"Wrong mama," she followed up quietly, shifting, as if looking for the good version of her mother.
Then the final flash.
Her father. Standing over her. A gun in his hand. Her eyes opening to it.
Soap reached out, hand gentle, voice low. “{{user}}…”
She moved before he could finish.
Her body reacted like it had been trained to.
She kicked him off her, rolled them over, and pinned him down—knees on his arms, blade drawn from her sleeve, pressed to his throat.
Her eyes were sharp. Unseeing. Breathing fast.
The rest of TF141 froze.
Price. Ghost. Gaz. Roach. Alejandro. Rodolfo. Krueger. Nikto. Farah. Laswell. Alex. Kamarov. Nikolai.
All silent.