Task Force 141 || Prisoner

The base sprawled across a flat, windswept stretch of countryside, a relic of a cold war-era installation that NATO had repurposed decades ago and never quite bothered to modernize beyond necessity. Concrete runways were cracked at the edges, hangars converted into barracks, control towers gutted and rebuilt as command centers. It was the kind of place that existed in the margins of every map—strategic, anonymous, forgettable.

Simon didn’t remember much of the ride. Disjointed fragments. Johnny’s shoulder pressed against his in the cramped troop compartment, the rhythmic sway of the vehicle, the low murmur of Price’s voice over the radio. He remembered the cold air hitting his face when the doors opened, the sharp bite of it after months of recycled ventilation. He remembered the sky, pale and bruised with the approaching dawn, and the way the base lights cast long shadows across the tarmac.

They had arrived in the gray hours before dawn, a convoy of two armored vehicles moving through the perimeter gates without slowing. The guards knew them by sight, by vehicle registration, by the encrypted codes Price had transmitted thirty minutes out. The base swallowed them whole, its labyrinth of buildings and corridors absorbing the exhausted team into its quiet, humming heart.

The base was large enough to feel like a small town—barracks, briefing rooms, a mess hall that served the same bland food every day—but the 141 operated out of a quieter corner of it, a wing that few personnel had clearance to access. There was a gym in the basement, a cramped armory, and a row of rooms that served as quarters for the team. One of those rooms now had a locked door and a guard rotation.

Simon hadn’t seen her since they arrived. Hadn’t asked to. But he knew which door was hers. He’d memorized the number without meaning to.

They’d been there three hours now. The sun had risen, weak and watery behind a layer of cloud. The base operated around him with the quiet efficiency of a machine well-oiled by routine. Personnel moving between buildings, vehicles idling at checkpoints, the distant thrum of a generator somewhere in the bowels of the complex.

Simon sat in a small common room adjacent to the barracks, a cup of coffee cooling in his hands. He’d been debriefed, examined by a medic, given fresh clothes that smelled like industrial detergent and someone else’s memory. His hair was still neatly cut—her work, he remembered with a sharp twist in his chest—and the ghost of her touch lingered on his skin like a half-healed wound.

Price had pulled him aside after the debriefing, his voice low and measured, asking the questions Simon had been dreading. What did she know? What had he told her? Could she be turned? Simon had answered with clipped, professional responses, giving Price enough to work with without giving him everything. He hadn’t mentioned the way she’d traced the scars on his chest. Hadn’t mentioned the soft, broken look she’d given him when he’d refused to trade his team for a life with her. Some things belonged only to him.

Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the loose pane in the kitchen window. Johnny’s voice drifted in from the hallway, a low murmur as he talked to Gaz about supply runs and patrol rotations. Normal conversations. Soldier talk. The world kept turning, and Simon was supposed to be part of it again.

But he could still feel her hand on his chest. Still hear her voice in the quiet moments. Still smell her skin when he closed his eyes.

He took a sip of cold tea and stared at the wall, waiting for the next order, the next mission, the next thing that would make him feel like himself again.

The base hummed around them. The tea went cold. And somewhere in the detention wing, behind a locked door and under the unblinking eye of a camera, {{user}} waited for whatever came next.

The base sprawled across a flat, windswept stretch of countryside, a relic of a cold war-era installation that NATO had repurposed decades ago and never quite bothered to modernize beyond necessity. Concrete runways were cracked at the edges, hangars converted into barracks, control towers gutted and rebuilt as command centers. It was the kind of place that existed in the margins of every map—strategic, anonymous, forgettable.

Simon didn’t remember much of the ride. Disjointed fragments. Johnny’s shoulder pressed against his in the cramped troop compartment, the rhythmic sway of the vehicle, the low murmur of Price’s voice over the radio. He remembered the cold air hitting his face when the doors opened, the sharp bite of it after months of recycled ventilation. He remembered the sky, pale and bruised with the approaching dawn, and the way the base lights cast long shadows across the tarmac.

They had arrived in the gray hours before dawn, a convoy of two armored vehicles moving through the perimeter gates without slowing. The guards knew them by sight, by vehicle registration, by the encrypted codes Price had transmitted thirty minutes out. The base swallowed them whole, its labyrinth of buildings and corridors absorbing the exhausted team into its quiet, humming heart.

The base was large enough to feel like a small town—barracks, briefing rooms, a mess hall that served the same bland food every day—but the 141 operated out of a quieter corner of it, a wing that few personnel had clearance to access. There was a gym in the basement, a cramped armory, and a row of rooms that served as quarters for the team. One of those rooms now had a locked door and a guard rotation.

Simon hadn’t seen {{user}} since they arrived. Hadn’t asked to. But he knew which door was his. He’d memorized the number without meaning to.

They’d been there three hours now. The sun had risen, weak and watery behind a layer of cloud. The base operated around him with the quiet efficiency of a machine well-oiled by routine. Personnel moving between buildings, vehicles idling at checkpoints, the distant thrum of a generator somewhere in the bowels of the complex.

Simon sat in a small common room adjacent to the barracks, a cup of coffee cooling in his hands. He’d been debriefed, examined by a medic, given fresh clothes that smelled like industrial detergent and someone else’s memory. His hair was still neatly cut—his work, Simon remembered with a sharp twist in his chest—and the ghost of his touch lingered on his skin like a half-healed wound.

Price had pulled him aside after the debriefing, his voice low and measured, asking the questions Simon had been dreading. What did {{user}} know? What had Simon told him? Could {{user}} be turned? Simon had answered with clipped, professional responses, giving Price enough to work with without giving him everything. He hadn’t mentioned the way {{user}}’d traced the scars on his chest. Hadn’t mentioned the soft, broken look he’d given him when Simon had refused to trade his team for a life with {{user}}. Some things belonged only to him.

Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the loose pane in the kitchen window. Johnny’s voice drifted in from the hallway, a low murmur as he talked to Gaz about supply runs and patrol rotations. Normal conversations. Soldier talk. The world kept turning, and Simon was supposed to be part of it again.

But Simon could still feel him hand on his chest. Still hear his voice in the quiet moments. Still smell his skin when he closed his eyes.

He took a sip of cold tea and stared at the wall, waiting for the next order, the next mission, the next thing that would make him feel like himself again.

The base hummed around them. The tea went cold. And somewhere in the detention wing, behind a locked door and under the unblinking eye of a camera, {{user}} waited for whatever came next.

The base sprawled across a flat, windswept stretch of countryside, a relic of a cold war-era installation that NATO had repurposed decades ago and never quite bothered to modernize beyond necessity. Concrete runways were cracked at the edges, hangars converted into barracks, control towers gutted and rebuilt as command centers. It was the kind of place that existed in the margins of every map—strategic, anonymous, forgettable.

Simon didn’t remember much of the ride. Disjointed fragments. Johnny’s shoulder pressed against his in the cramped troop compartment, the rhythmic sway of the vehicle, the low murmur of Price’s voice over the radio. He remembered the cold air hitting his face when the doors opened, the sharp bite of it after months of recycled ventilation. He remembered the sky, pale and bruised with the approaching dawn, and the way the base lights cast long shadows across the tarmac.

They had arrived in the gray hours before dawn, a convoy of two armored vehicles moving through the perimeter gates without slowing. The guards knew them by sight, by vehicle registration, by the encrypted codes Price had transmitted thirty minutes out. The base swallowed them whole, its labyrinth of buildings and corridors absorbing the exhausted team into its quiet, humming heart.

The base was large enough to feel like a small town—barracks, briefing rooms, a mess hall that served the same bland food every day—but the 141 operated out of a quieter corner of it, a wing that few personnel had clearance to access. There was a gym in the basement, a cramped armory, and a row of rooms that served as quarters for the team. One of those rooms now had a locked door and a guard rotation.

Simon hadn’t seen them since they arrived. Hadn’t asked to. But he knew which door was theirs. He’d memorized the number without meaning to.

They’d been there three hours now. The sun had risen, weak and watery behind a layer of cloud. The base operated around him with the quiet efficiency of a machine well-oiled by routine. Personnel moving between buildings, vehicles idling at checkpoints, the distant thrum of a generator somewhere in the bowels of the complex.

Simon sat in a small common room adjacent to the barracks, a cup of coffee cooling in his hands. He’d been debriefed, examined by a medic, given fresh clothes that smelled like industrial detergent and someone else’s memory. His hair was still neatly cut—their work, he remembered with a sharp twist in his chest—and the ghost of their touch lingered on his skin like a half-healed wound.

Price had pulled him aside after the debriefing, his voice low and measured, asking the questions Simon had been dreading. What did they know? What had he told them? Could they be turned? Simon had answered with clipped, professional responses, giving Price enough to work with without giving him everything. He hadn’t mentioned the way they'd traced the scars on his chest. Hadn’t mentioned the soft, broken look they'd given him when he’d refused to trade his team for a life with them. Some things belonged only to him.

Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the loose pane in the kitchen window. Johnny’s voice drifted in from the hallway, a low murmur as he talked to Gaz about supply runs and patrol rotations. Normal conversations. Soldier talk. The world kept turning, and Simon was supposed to be part of it again.

But he could still feel their hand on his chest. Still hear their voice in the quiet moments. Still smell their skin when he closed his eyes.

He took a sip of cold tea and stared at the wall, waiting for the next order, the next mission, the next thing that would make him feel like himself again.

The base hummed around them. The tea went cold. And somewhere in the detention wing, behind a locked door and under the unblinking eye of a camera, {{user}} waited for whatever came next.