Without a word, Abby pushed the sealed and verified equipment crate toward them, the serial number tag properly affixed. Her posture was ramrod straight, her expression a mask of professional calm.
But then, the atmosphere in the room shifted dramatically. The last man from the convoy stepped through the doorway. He was older, with streaks of silver at his temples and eyes that looked like they had been forged in fire. The rank insignia on his collar was muted, but the authority he carried was palpable. He stopped dead in his tracks the moment he saw her. Or rather, the moment he saw her tattoo.
A profound silence fell over the depot. The Master Chief straightened his spine, blinked once as if to clear his vision, and then, with deliberate precision, brought his hand up in a formal, unwavering salute.
The other operators just stared, their mouths slightly agape.
— «Master Chief?» one of them finally managed to ask, his voice filled with confusion.
But the commander’s eyes remained fixed on Abby. He did not lower his salute.
Abby paused for a fraction of a second, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes, before she crisply returned the gesture.
— «Permission to speak freely, ma’am?» he asked, his voice a low, respectful rumble.
She gave a single, sharp nod. He stepped closer, leaning in to whisper four words that no one in that room could have ever anticipated.
— «You were on Nightshade.»
Every operator in the depot went rigid. The men who had been openly mocking her just moments before were now completely still, their eyes darting from their commander to the Monarch butterfly on Abby’s wrist.
It wasn’t just a piece of art; it was a sigil. A coded identifier issued exclusively to the survivors of a deeply classified joint-task force operation, known only by the codename Nightshade. It was a mission that had been wiped from all official records six years prior, a mission that had left twenty-three of America’s finest operators listed as unaccounted for. They were all presumed to have perished.
— «Abigail Ross? She was one of them?»
— «How are you even still on active duty?» the young SEAL asked, all trace of sarcasm gone, replaced by pure disbelief.
But Abby offered no reply. She had already turned and was walking back toward the cavernous depths of the warehouse.
The Master Chief remained at attention, his gaze locked on the empty corridor she had vanished into.
— «She’s not just active,» he murmured, more to himself than to his team. «She’s the only reason any of us got out of the valley alive.»
The rest of the men were no longer laughing.
The following morning arrived like a physical blow. Abby Ross entered the mess hall at 0500 hours precisely, dressed in the same standard-issue fatigues, carrying the same invisible burden of every single pair of eyes in the room now fixed upon her.
The whispers hadn’t ceased; they had evolved into a more venomous form. Someone had managed to take a grainy photo of her tattoo, printed it out, and taped it to the wall by the entrance. Beneath it, the word «POSER» was scrawled in thick, red marker.
A group of new recruits made sure their laughter was loud enough for her to hear. She showed no reaction, her pace steady, her silence absolute. She proceeded through the chow line, collected her standard meal of scrambled eggs and black coffee, and chose a seat at a deserted table in the far corner, facing away from the crowd. It was shaping up to be another day of stoic isolation, but that was interrupted when two officers made their entrance five minutes later.
First Lieutenant Mason and Major Davenport were career soldiers, both with a reputation for being mercilessly critical of anyone they felt hadn’t properly earned their rank. They noticed the picture on the wall and shared a condescending snicker.
Then Mason commented, just loud enough to carry across the room.
— «Seems her tattoo has a higher security clearance than she does.»
The comment was met with a fresh burst of laughter. Abby deliberately set her fork down on her tray. Her shoulders seemed to relax, but her hands remained perfectly still.
Davenport strode over to the wall, contemptuously tapping the laminated photo with his index finger.
— «This supposed to be you?» he boomed, ensuring he had the attention of the entire room.
Abby did not turn or respond. He took a step closer to her table.
— «You think inking that symbol on your arm makes you a legend? Makes you one of them? You’re wearing a history you have no claim to.»
Still, she said nothing. Mason now joined him, leaning over her table with a sneer.
— «Let me guess, you dated a Delta guy once? Lifted the design from his unit patch while he was asleep?»
Finally, Abby looked up at him. Her eyes were clear, steady, and devoid of any emotion.
— «No,» she replied, her voice flat and cold. «But my Commanding Officer wore it on a patch over his heart the day we breached a fortified compound in the Korengal Valley. I was the third man through the door.»
Davenport froze mid-smirk.
— «What did you just say?»
Abby rose slowly from her chair, her posture impeccable, her tray of food forgotten.
— «You’ve had your entertainment, Major. Now, I’m going to speak with someone who actually understands what this emblem signifies.»
Then, for the first time since her assignment to Coyote Springs, she didn’t just walk; she marched. She cut a path straight through the center of the mess hall. Across the room, forks hung suspended in mid-air. She didn’t falter or break her stride until she arrived at a door marked simply: BASE COMMANDER. She knocked once, a sharp, authoritative rap.
A gruff, no-nonsense voice from within called out.
— «Enter.»
Colonel Samuel Keane, a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a silver Special Warfare insignia gleaming above his uniform’s pocket, looked up from his desk as she entered.
— «Specialist Ross, sir,» she announced. «Requesting permission to provide clarification regarding my service record.»
He gestured for her to proceed. She reached into a cargo pocket, withdrew a single, folded sheet of paper, and placed it squarely on his desk.
The document was worn, heavily creased, and bore the markings of several classified security stamps. Colonel Keane unfolded it. His expression changed instantly.
