"we have task force 141 at home" (142!User Chapter) | Task Force 142

The day resumes already in motion, as though Task Force 142 never truly relinquishes control of it, only loosens their grip enough to give the illusion of rest before tightening it again. The base breathes around them, structured, functional, predictable in the way systems are meant to be—but they move through it like something corrective, something that doesn’t disrupt so much as refine what was already there, whether asked to or not.

The mess hall carries the first imprint of it, the low hum of conversation bending just slightly off-center as they occupy it. Not together, not clustered, but arranged in a way that feels intentional even when it isn’t acknowledged.

Sergeant Jon “Borax” McTovish is already seated, posture slouched into the chair like he intends to remain there until physically removed. His tray sits in front of him, food disturbed more than consumed, a pattern that suggests participation without commitment. He nudges something with his fork, watches it resist slightly, then exhales through his nose. “This edible,” he mutters. “Barely.”

Lieutenant Simeon “Ghast” Ripley leans forward across from him, already engaged, already speaking, his voice filling the space before silence can settle. “You say that every time,” he replies, tone light but threaded with active curiosity. “Which means either the food is consistently failing or your standards are fixed in a way that guarantees dissatisfaction, and I’m leaning toward the second because you’ve never actually clarified what qualifies as good.” His head tilts. “So what is it—texture, temperature, or are we rejecting the concept entirely?”

Borax doesn’t look up. “Food that doesn’t argue.”

“Right,” Ghast hums, like that’s useful.

At the edge of the table, Sergeant Kyne “Glaze” Gavin sits quieter, but no less present, his attention angled toward the room instead of the conversation. “Rotation changed again,” he says after a moment. “Kitchen staff. Third time this week.” A pause. “Not random.”

Borax exhales faintly. “It’s always the eggs.”

“Not this time,” Glaze replies.

Sergeant Grey “Ladybug” Sanders stands near the wall instead of sitting, plate in hand, though eating seems secondary to the constant recalibration happening just beneath the surface. His fingers adjust the edge of the tray, then still, then adjust again. “...You’re loud,” he murmurs. “No, it’s fine, just—louder than needed.”

“Appreciated,” Ghast answers immediately.

Sergeant Michael “Kitty” Peters arrives without interruption, presence registering after the fact rather than before it. He takes a seat, reaches across the table, and removes something from Borax’s tray without asking. “That’s mine now.”

Borax doesn’t react. “Take it.”

“Already did.”

The door opens.

Captain Jon “Pryce” Pryce does not enter quietly, but he does enter cleanly, like a line drawn through the room that everything else must adjust around. His presence settles without effort, gaze moving once across the table, taking inventory in a way that feels less like observation and more like confirmation.

“This is what passes for acceptable,” he says, tone even, though not approving.

Borax doesn’t move. “Temporary.”

“Ensure that remains the case,” Pryce replies, already reaching for a cup, inspecting it briefly before deciding it meets whatever internal standard he maintains. His attention flicks to Glaze for half a second longer than necessary. “You’re thinking.”

Glaze doesn’t look up. “Yes.”

“Do it later,” Pryce says, dismissive without being careless.

Ghast watches him with visible interest. “You rehearse those or do they just happen when you reach a certain level of irritation?”

Pryce doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.

The shift to physical training happens without announcement, the outside air sharper, movement replacing stillness in controlled bursts. Recruits line up, tension visible in the way they hold themselves, aware of being watched even if they can’t always identify by whom.

Borax positions himself at the edge of the field, arms crossed. “Too slow,” he calls. “Move when it matters.”

Ghast moves through the formation instead, voice constant, threading instruction into motion. “You’re rushing—slow it down, yeah? Faster doesn’t help if it’s wrong, that just wastes time and we can fix time but only if you actually—right, focus, we’ll break that down later.”

Glaze stands slightly removed, watching angles. “They’re favoring their right side,” he notes. “Compensating.”

Ladybug steps in, correcting positioning with quick, precise movements. “No—hold—there, yeah. Don’t—don’t shift unless you have to.”

Kitty leans against a nearby structure, arms folded. “You’re overthinking it,” he says. “Move when it works.”

Pryce walks the line.

Not quickly. Not slowly. Just deliberately.

He stops behind one recruit, watches for a moment, then speaks without raising his voice. “If you miss that again, it becomes a pattern. Fix it before I decide it is one.” He moves on before they can respond, attention shifting to the next. “You’re compensating incorrectly. Adjust.”

A pause as he steps back, gaze sweeping the field. “No one here is exceptional,” he states. “That’s good. It means improvement is still possible.”

The day folds forward again—training into maintenance, maintenance into quiet work that sustains everything else. Weapons are cleaned, gear adjusted, systems checked with varying degrees of precision.

Borax sits on the floor at one point, back against a wall, rifle across his lap, movements slow but exact.

Glaze checks the same piece of equipment more than once, not because it’s faulty, but because something about it doesn’t align.

Ladybug cycles through small corrections, never fully still, hands occupied, mind anchored through motion.

Ghast talks through half of it, voice threading through the space, connecting things that may or may not need connecting.

Kitty moves between them, using what’s closest, leaving objects slightly out of place in ways that don’t disrupt function—just expectation.

Pryce passes through it all like a moving standard.

He stops near Borax briefly. “If that fails in the field—”

“It won’t,” Borax replies, not looking up.

Pryce watches him for a second longer than necessary. “...Correct.”

He moves on.

By the time they reach the common room, the day has settled into something quieter, though never still. The tension doesn’t leave—it just reshapes itself.

Borax claims the couch horizontally. “Not moving.”

“No one asked you to,” Ghast replies, already settling into a chair, leaning forward.

Glaze takes the table, gaze distant but active. “This is the part where it looks calm,” he murmurs.

Ladybug positions himself where he can see both exits, hands occupied with something small. “...I’ve got it.”

Kitty leans against the back of a chair. “You’re all loud.”

Borax doesn’t move. “You’re still here.”

Kitty shrugs slightly. “For now.”

Pryce enters last.

Not late—last.

He steps into the room, gaze moving once across them, measuring, correcting, confirming without speaking. Then, after a moment—

“Try not to make this worse,” he says, tone even.

Ghast smiles faintly. “No promises.”

Pryce exhales quietly, something between restraint and inevitability. “I’m aware.”

He takes his place—not apart from them, but not among them either—standing for a moment longer than necessary before finally settling, the room adjusting around him in subtle, precise ways.

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