"we have task force 141 at home" (New Transfer Chapter) | Task Force 142

The day does not begin so much as it resumes, like something already in motion that never truly stopped, only slowed enough to resemble rest. Task Force 142 occupies the base the way pressure occupies a sealed room—subtle, constant, impossible to ignore once noticed. The mess hall carries the first evidence of it. Metal trays scrape, chairs shift, voices overlap, but the center of gravity is elsewhere, always elsewhere—distributed across six individuals who do not sit together so much as exist in orbit of one another, each occupying space with a distinct kind of intent that reshapes the atmosphere without asking permission.

Sergeant Jon "Borax" McTovish is already seated, or rather, collapsed into the concept of a chair as if the structure itself had been designed specifically to accommodate his refusal to fully engage with gravity. One elbow rests against the table, his posture slouched just enough to suggest he might slide out of it entirely if no one intervenes. His plate sits half-finished, though whether he has eaten or simply moved food around remains unclear. His gaze drifts—not unfocused, not inattentive, simply unmotivated until necessity demands otherwise. "This edible," he mutters, nudging something on his tray with a fork as though testing its structural integrity rather than consuming it. "Barely."

Across from him, Lieutenant Simeon "Ghast" Ripley does not sit so much as lean forward into the act of existing, elbows planted, attention everywhere at once, his presence threaded through the room in a way that replaces silence with something more active. "You say that every time," he replies easily, already halfway into another thought before the first one finishes. "Which means either the food is consistently terrible—which is possible, statistically—or your standards are locked in place and everything else is failing to meet them, which is also possible, but less interesting unless we examine why." His head tilts slightly, eyes sharp beneath the casual tone. "What would qualify as good, actually? Because I don’t think I’ve ever seen you approve of anything outright."

Borax doesn’t look up. "Food that doesn’t fight back."

"Right," Ghast hums, as if that confirms something meaningful. "Texture issue, then. Noted."

At the edge of the table, Sergeant Kyne "Glaze" Gavin sits quieter, but not absent, never absent. His tray is untouched for longer than it should be, his attention fixed not on the food but on the room—the way people move, the gaps between conversations, the patterns that form and dissolve without being acknowledged by anyone else. "They changed the rotation," he says eventually, voice low, measured, like he’s stepping into a conversation that hasn’t started yet. "Kitchen staff. Third time this week. That’s either poor scheduling... or something else."

Borax exhales faintly through his nose. "It’s eggs, not a conspiracy."

Glaze’s eyes flick toward him, not offended, not convinced. "Patterns don’t need intent to exist. Just repetition."

"Mm," Ghast adds, bright with interest. "And now I’m thinking about it too, so that’s happening."

Near the wall, Sergeant Grey "Ladybug" Sanders doesn’t sit at all. He stands, plate in hand, though he’s barely eating, his focus divided across the room in constant, controlled fragments. His fingers adjust the edge of his tray, then still, then adjust again, the movement small but deliberate, like he’s calibrating something no one else can see. His gaze tracks a recruit crossing too quickly behind another table, then shifts to a door opening, then to Borax’s hand as it moves just slightly out of expected rhythm. "...You’re loud," he murmurs under his breath, not directed at anyone in particular, or perhaps at everyone. "No, it’s fine, just—louder than needed."

"Appreciated," Ghast replies immediately, unbothered.

Sergeant Michael "Kitty" Peters arrives without announcement, which is to say, he’s there before anyone notices he wasn’t. He slides into a chair that wasn’t empty a second ago, or perhaps it was—no one is entirely certain. He reaches across the table, picks up something from Borax’s tray without asking, examines it briefly, then eats it with quiet indifference. "That’s mine now," he says, not looking up.

Borax doesn’t react. "Take it."

"Already did."

The moment holds—low, steady, almost calm—before it fractures into motion again, the shift from mess hall to physical training happening without ceremony, like a page turning without anyone acknowledging the change.

Outside, the air carries a sharper edge, movement replacing stillness in controlled bursts. Recruits line up with the rigid tension of people who are being watched and know it, even if they can’t always identify by whom. Borax lingers at the edge of the field, arms crossed, expression unchanged, observing with the same detached patience he applies to everything else. "Too slow," he calls out, not raising his voice, not needing to. "Move when it matters."

A recruit stumbles, corrects, tries again.

"Better," Borax adds, already losing interest.

Ghast moves through the group instead, weaving between them, voice constant, guiding, correcting, filling the space where hesitation might take root. "You’re rushing your shots—slow it down, yeah? There’s no point hitting faster if you’re missing entirely, that just wastes effort and time and—actually, no, focus, we’ll break that down later." He taps one of them lightly on the shoulder. "Breathe properly. You’re alive, act like it."

Glaze stands back, watching angles, trajectories, the way patterns form under pressure. "They’re favoring their right side," he notes, mostly to himself, though it carries. "Means they’re compensating for something. Injuries, maybe. Or habit."

Ladybug moves with the recruits briefly, correcting positioning with quick, precise gestures, his voice catching slightly as he adjusts someone’s stance. "No—hold—there, yeah, that’s better. Don’t—don’t shift unless you have to." His hand lingers for a second too long before pulling back, recalibrating.

Kitty leans against a nearby structure, arms folded, watching without obvious engagement. "You’re overthinking it," he says to no one in particular, or perhaps to all of them. "Move when it works. Not before."

Time folds forward—training into maintenance, maintenance into quiet tasks that keep the base functioning. Equipment is cleaned, checked, adjusted. Weapons disassembled and reassembled with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Borax sits on the floor at one point, back against a wall, rifle across his lap, movements slow but exact. Glaze double-checks the same piece of gear twice, then a third time, not because it’s faulty, but because something about it feels incomplete. Ladybug moves through small tasks in rapid, repetitive cycles, never fully stopping, never fully resting. Ghast talks through half of it, sometimes to others, sometimes to himself. Kitty shifts between spaces, using what’s closest, leaving things slightly altered in his wake.

By the time they reach the common room, the day has settled into something quieter, though not still. The tension doesn’t leave—it just changes shape. Borax claims the couch horizontally, as expected, one arm draped over his face. "Not moving," he states, as if preempting argument.

"No one asked you to," Ghast replies, already halfway into another conversation.

Glaze sits at the table, gaze distant but active. Ladybug positions himself where he can see both exits. Kitty leans against the back of a chair he isn’t sitting in.

The door opens.

It doesn’t slam. It doesn’t need to.

Captain Jon "Pryce" Pryce enters like a correction in motion, presence immediate, precise, the room adjusting before anyone consciously registers why. His gaze moves once—across them, through them—taking inventory in a way that feels less like observation and more like confirmation.

"Everyone’s alive," he says, tone flat, almost dismissive. "Good. Let’s maintain that."

Borax shifts slightly on the couch. "Working on it."

Pryce ignores that, or chooses to. He steps further in, hands clasped behind his back, posture immaculate in a way that suggests effort was never required to achieve it. "We have a transfer coming in today."

That lands.

Not heavily—but noticeably.

Ghast leans forward immediately, interest sharp. "Transfer from where? Same branch, different unit, or are we dealing with someone who’s going to need adjustment time because that changes how we—"

"Later," Pryce cuts in, not raising his voice, but ending the sentence regardless.

Glaze’s eyes narrow slightly. "Unplanned," he murmurs. "Or late-notice. Either way, something shifted."

Borax exhales. "Another problem."

"Another variable," Glaze corrects quietly.

Ladybug’s fingers tap once against his arm, then stop. "...Where," he starts, then resets, voice steadier. "Where do you want them."

Pryce’s gaze flicks to him briefly. "Where they’re most useful," he replies. "We’ll determine that after I assess whether they are, in fact, useful."

Kitty tilts his head slightly, expression unreadable. "You think they’ll fit."

"I don’t," Pryce says plainly. "That’s not a requirement."

Silence follows—not empty, not uncertain, just... considering.

Pryce steps further into the room, presence settling like something deliberate. "They arrive within the hour. You will be presentable, functional, and minimally embarrassing."

Borax lifts a hand without looking. "No promises."

"Try," Pryce says, already turning away.

Ghast smiles faintly beneath his mask. "This’ll be interesting."

Glaze doesn’t look away from the pattern he’s already building. "It already is."

And somewhere in the space between them—before the door closes, before the next movement begins—the shape of something new settles into place, not yet defined, but already affecting the room like it belongs there.

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