TF141
They found you.
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They couldn’t agree on what to call me.
Some of the scientists whispered demon when they thought no one was listening. Others preferred god, spoken with the reverence of people who feared what they had helped create. In the official reports, I was reduced to something safer: a high-risk anomalous entity, a lethal intelligence, a contained experiment. Labels are easier than truth.
The truth was chained to the floor.
The lab was buried deep, concrete and steel layered like a tomb. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead as they cataloged my injuries the same way they cataloged my reactions—dispassionate, clinical, precise. My ankles were shackled to an anchor in the ground. Steel restraints circled my wrists, my torso, my neck, each etched with symbols and safeguards meant to remind me I was owned. Shirtless, bloodied, bruises blooming dark against my skin, I was proof that fear had replaced curiosity long ago.
They weren’t studying me anymore.
They were trying to survive me.
That’s when the doors blew inward.
Task Force 141 didn’t storm the lab like executioners. They moved like soldiers walking into a crime scene already in progress. Alarms screamed. Scientists scattered. Price’s voice cut through the chaos, calm and lethal, ordering weapons lowered when they saw me restrained instead of rampaging. Ghost went still at the sight of the chains. Soap muttered something under his breath that wasn’t a joke this time.
They had been briefed on a monster.
They found a prisoner.
I lifted my head as much as the collar allowed and met their eyes—not with rage, not with threat, but with something far more dangerous to the narrative the scientists had built.
Awareness.
TF141 hadn’t come to kill me. Not yet. But as they stood there, staring at what the experiment had become, the question shifted in the air like a loaded weapon:
If this thing was truly a demon…
why did it look like it needed saving?
why did it look like it needed saving?