#task force 141 oc

A year ago, the first monsters arrived, appearing from deep within the Pacific Ocean. Towering, vicious alien entities that seemed to be hellbent on destroying as much human life and property as they could. The first attack was off the coast of Japan, and the monsters were soon named Kaiju, a fitting name that instantly conjured images straight out of classic Japanese monster films. With their slick, grey-scaled hides and the glowing blue acid pulsing through their bodies, these beasts looked like something more at home in a Godzilla film than real life. Unfortunately, real life is not like the movies, and these were no actors in rubber suits. No, these beasts were meaner, louder, and very much alive. And they were here to kill. 

The first Kaiju took seven days to take down. The fighter jets, the missiles, bullets, nothing that was in the current arsenal worked until a fighter pilot got one lucky shot with a hellfire missile. After that attack, more Kaiju came bursting through what was now known as the Breach, found 304 kilometers away from Guam in the deepest section of the Mariana Trench. The attacks, at this point, were still months apart, and the militaries of the world started to adapt to this newfound threat, but the economic and humanitarian loss was catastrophic. Thankfully, science and technology had been quietly innovating in the background for years, pushed forward by the evermoving military industrial complex, and had already begun testing mechsuits. Giant, hulking suits of metal with offensive and defensive capabilities that had only been seen before in science fiction. After UN decree, the Pan-Pacific Defense Corps was formed, and with it came the mechs from the Jaeger program. 

With the formation of the Pan-Pacific Defense Corps, the focus of the world’s militaries went from intercontinental battles to the Kaijus, making regular, run of the mill missions pretty much non-existent. Therefore, every military personnel was required to take a compatibility test. At first, no one was told what this test was. An officer or an enlisted would be quietly taken out of formation one day, and half of the people who were pulled out were never seen again. 

The test was itself wasn’t a secret. However, what happened in the test was. And when a bored platoon is given uncertainty and disappearing brothers, rumors are bound to follow quickly after. It was a pretty unanimous agreement that the personnel who were now mysteriously missing from rosters and barracks rooms had failed the test. Some whispered that the flunkees were quietly removed from military service, as they were incapable of performing at the level that they were required to. Others, the more pessimistic of the rumors, argued that the people who had failed the tests were killed. But, even the other soldiers, the ones who were seen after their test, they disappeared shortly after too. Something about reassignment, whatever that meant. 

Simon Riley, the battle-hardened lieutenant of Task Force 141, didn’t realize the truth until it was too late. He’d been told, like the others, that this test was just a new kind of combat readiness assessment, something routine. No one questioned it. It was the military, there was always new tests and paperwork and other bureaucratic hoops to jump through. But, when he was brought into a quiet, sterile room, there were no obstacle courses, no marksmanship tests, and no shouting instructors. Instead, he was met with white walls, the gentle hum of various machines, and rows of stiff medical beds. Three other soldiers were already there, men and women he didn’t recognize, sitting silently, each with their own impersonal orderly. 

One of the men, a younger soldier with close-cropped red hair and a kind, freckled expression, gave Simon a small wave, the barest flicker of human connection in this cold, clinical space. An orderly quickly shut down the gesture with a sharp glare, as if even that tiny movement was against some sort of unspoken rule. That’s when Simon knew, deep in his gut, that something wasn’t right. 

However, a soldier follows orders, no matter their gut feelings. It’s not worth it to rock the boat. This was probably just some sort of new medical testing for airborne contaminants from the Kaiju or something. So, when the orderly that had brought Simon in gestured towards one of the medical beds, he sat. As the orderly started to place a metallic contraption on his head, Simon stole one last glance at the red-headed soldier that was seated next to him. The kid was barely old enough to shave, let alone wear a uniform. Simon watched as the red-head’s hands trembled slightly in his lap. Must be fresh out of training, Simon figured. Probably just got assigned to the base. 

The contraption was snug, cold metal pressing into his skull with clinical precision. Simon mentally ticked off each contact point (frontal, temporal, occipital) as if checking off boxes on a form. Great, he thought. Another fuckin’ psych test. 

The click of the machine being turned on reverberated through his head like the knell of a death bell, but he barely had time to register it before images rapidly started flashing in his own mind - sharp, fast, relentless. They exploded behind his eyes like flashes of lightning. It was dizzying, like falling through a psychedelic kaleidoscope of memories that weren’t quite his. By the time the contraption was lifted from his head, it felt like hours had passed, but the clock on the wall across from him hadn’t moved more than a minute. Simon’s skull throbbed with dull pain, and a high-pitched ringing screamed through his ears like the aftermath of a blast. Blinking through the haze of the bright, clinical light Simon turned his head slightly to glance at the red-headed soldier who had been sitting beside him. A cold wave snaked down his spine as his gaze met a bloodied white sheet being pulled over the last visible tufts of red fuzz on the top of the soldier's head. Simon never even knew his name. 

Simon opened his mouth slightly to try and speak, but his tongue felt heavy and useless, like it no longer belonged in his mouth. Before he could muster a sound, the orderly who had been scribbling down Simon’s results quickly grabbed onto his jaw and yanked his head back to force his gaze away from the body and back up towards the ceiling. She leaned over him and looked down, her blue eyes cold and emotionless. “Lieutenant Riley,” she said flatly. “You passed the drift compatibility test. Congratulations. You will be shipped out to the Hong Kong Shatterdome on the next flight out. You have until 0300 to gather your belongings and pack what you will need.”

Simon’s head was spinning. Drift compatibility? He had never heard of it. His ears were still ringing, even if it had dulled slightly. He blinked again, trying to piece together what was happening. This felt like the beginning of a bad psychological horror movie. He swallowed thickly, trying to fight past the nausea that was bubbling up his throat. “What about… the rest of my squad?” he croaked. His voice scraped out, rough and weak, and he hated the way that it trembled in the air. 

The orderly sighed and rolled her eyes. “They are to be tested later. It was deemed… inadvisable for a squad as tightly knit as yours to test together. It would have caused problems with the synaptic wave formations. If they pass, they should be on the same flight out as you. Now, you need to get up and go pack. Do not speak of this.”

----------

Simon sat on the edge of his bunk for what felt like hours after the test. His elbows were resting on his knees, the rough camouflaged cotton of his cargos biting into his tattooed skin. He had a private room, same as everyone in TaskForce 141, but it all still felt too quiet. Usually, there would be low jazz playing from the commons while Captain Price smoked on a cigar, Soap laughing loudly at a shitty joke, or just the clink of boots on tile. But now, their barracks felt as if they had long since been abandoned. And maybe they had. 

Simon’s gaze slowly drifted to the standard-issue duffel bag that sat open, the dusty brown canvas yawning open like the dirt around an empty grave. 

His hands were moving before his brain caught up. Shirts. Socks. Pants. Underwear. Sidearm. Toothbrush. All packed away neatly into the duffel with hard bred military precision. He picked up his combat knife, checking the edge against the meat of his thumb like he always did before a mission. But this was no routine mission, and the way his abdomen had been tied in knots ever since the test was a stark reminder of that very truth. 

Simon paused at his locker. There was a photo taped to the inside, the edges tanned and curled from years of deployment heat. TaskForce 141, grinning like idiots in the middle of the desert. Dirt-smeared and sunburnt, Gaz holding up a half-melted popsicle like it was a trophy. Simon couldn’t even remember where this photo had come from, only that they had laughed about it for days afterwards. He reached for the photo, but hesitated. His fingers hovered over the age-worn photograph, almost as if it was a livewire, something that could send a devastating shock right through his soul. 

Part of him wanted to leave it there, taped to the cool, grey metal of that locker. If he brought it, it meant he was hopeful that they would all make it to the other side. If he left it, it meant he’d already given up. 

He carefully peeled the photo down, folded it once, and tucked it into the inner pocket of the duffel bag. 

The clock on his wall read 0230. He still had thirty minutes before he was supposed to leave. 

He sat back down on the edge of his bunk. He ran a hand down his face as his head tilted up to the ceiling. The flourescent light overhead flickered once, buzzing like the drone of a half-dead insect. It was eerily similar to the hum that had filled that white testing room, too sterile and too bright, and it ricocheted against the walls of his mind. He could still feel the cold press of metal against his scalp like the fingers of a vengeful ghost. Could still hear the machine whirring on, but he couldn’t remember any of what he had seen. 

The room felt colder now. Emptier. Almost as if the test itself had stripped something away from him and tossed it into that same body bag that they had wrapped that red-headed kid in. A pang of guilt kicked Simon square in the chest. He was no stranger to death. Far from it. He had taken many lives himself, his hands had long since been stained a permanent shade of red. But this? This was different. That kid was dead now, all because some machine said he didn’t “fit”, and there was nothing Simon could’ve done to stop it. 

Drift compatibility.

He still didn’t know what it meant. But the way his stomach had been in knots since he had gotten back to his barracks told him enough. 

His fingers found the edge of his dog tags, the sturdy metal warm against his skin as he rubbed the edge of his thumb against the raised indentation of his identifying information. 

“Do not speak of this.”

The orderly’s voice echoed like it was carved into the inside of his skull. Her words had been so flat and emotionless, and had left no room for disobedience. Orders were orders. But, Simon had followed enough of them to know that the ones they told you not to speak of were always the ones that came back to bite you in the ass. 

He sighed and stood up, pacing around his room for what he knew would be the last time. He was a soldier, a transient by both past and nature, but this was the only place he had truly considered home. And now, his home was being ripped away from him all over again. His gaze flicked back to the duffel bag where the picture of him and his squad laid tucked away neatly inside of the inner pocket. 

They wouldn’t test the squad together. Too tightly knit. 

He hated how clinical it sounded, as if the bond that Simon, Soap, Gaz, and Price had forged through the blood, sweat, and loss that had been a constant in their lives was nothing more than a liability. 

He leaned down and zipped the bag shut, the sound sharp and final. He pulled a hoodie on before he slung the duffel over his shoulder. It felt heavier then it should have, considering what was inside of it, almost as if something in this room, in this base, was trying to hold him back. 

As his fingers met the cold handle of his barrack’s door, he paused. Hesitation was new to him. Then again, everything that was happening right now was new to him. Part of him wanted to say something, anything, just to remember that he was still human. But, the words didn’t come. 

Simon twisted the handle and glanced around at his room one last time, then flipped the light off behind him. 

Mission was way too far from easy, more if it was one of invading a old Russian warehouse about to crumble down, for intel.. It was a war. Asper was alone and Price was shouting at her on the comms for some reason she didn't knew, her adrenaline was winning over her entire body. The sergeant reacted fastly as one pf the ceilings crumbled down suddenly.. But it was a failure

— "STRANGER!" she heard Soap scream. Asper didn't know she had accidentally slipped at the same moment the ceiling collapsed.

Dust and ash instantly surrounded her as the ceiling and its fragments fell on top of her.

— "ASPER!" Gaz shouted as he ran toward the rubble of wood and bricks. Price immediately went after him to help the sergeant to pull those things off of her. After so many things had fallen on her, some of them dripping with blood, it was a miracle she was still alive!

.... But

*cough* — "C-Captain... I-...I-...I can't feel my le-legs..."

.. At what cost?

In fact, the blood was visible on the floor, the rubble, and her legs.

Weeks passed, and Asper seemed to show little improvement. Her legs hurt too much, and the pain in her head wouldn't go away with any medication. She suggested putting her to sleep like an animal, but Price refused to do that for her. All the team could do for now was support and keep her company, entertaining her with conversations and board games so she wouldn't lose her sanity from the pain she was in.

Asper was very weak and could barely pet Genocide, her little sugar glider who kept her company every time Gaz visited.

Soap kept her company, and Ghost probably played Uno with her, and they sometimes talked. Asper had a small friendship with the lieutenant, so that helped her quite a bit.

The person most responsible for caring for Asper was her aunt. Yes, her aunt. She'd been looking after Asper the whole time she was in the hospital. The poor woman could barely sleep because she was worried about her niece. Asper felt that, despite what had happened among her small family, the only one who could be there for her was her aunt, to protect her from the other people who wanted to hurt her.

One day, her aunt had an important emergency meeting and had to leave Asper alone, that's what she thought but in reality there was one person who hadn't visited her in the 18 weeks she was in the hospital. Her stepmother, Asper's heart almost sank into her stomach when she saw her, seeing the scars the older woman had and what Asper had done herself. Her stepmother had a long talk with her, not as the woman her daughter almost killed, but as a mother who cares about what happens to her daughter and is in a dangerous job.

or that's what it seems

— "..You should know it wasn't your fault."

Ruth, her stepmother, said with a soft voice that "showed" concern.

— "..But I almost killed you." Asper whispered, not intentionally, he was too weak to speak.

— "I know. That's why I came for, to give you karma." Ruth ripped out one of the IV poles, causing Asper to scream in pain, almost immediately a few minutes later Asper woke up again with another IV pole with blood of her same type being injected into it. Whatever had happened, her tired gaze looked down at Price, who was sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed with his body propped up on it, sleeping.

Asper was finally able to close her eyes and sleep peacefully for the first time since the events of the mission.