Chapter Text
Guilty. I was guilty of murder and I admitted to it. They deserved it for what they did. Maybe that's the only reason I hadn't gotten the death sentence. Because the men I had murdered, had assaulted and raped me. My murder was a brutal revenge driven one. One that garnered enough sympathy that I wasn't sentenced to death.
One that shouldn't have happened in the first place had the police done their jobs. Had the police taken me seriously and helped when the five men first started harassing me. When they started stalking me.
No.
The police did nothing. They did nothing and I was shoved into a van and fucked until I was bleeding. Then I was beaten and thrown out onto the street to die on the side of the road.
Somehow I managed to drag myself all the way to the next town over and get help. I was saved, sure. But not really. My mind is no longer my own and my body is permanently ruined. Unable to have children, long thick scars along my stomach and back, a stark scar cutting through the right side of my face from my hairline straight down to my jaw, it was a miracle I wasn't blind, a little one chipping through the left side of my top lip. Scars littered my thighs, my arms, where they gripped me harshly and their nails dug in. A thin scar adorned my throat where they held a knife to it too hard.
No one would help me. No one but myself. So I did. I left, went far away, trained, made myself strong, and planned. I planned their murders and went through with them without hesitation. Butchered bodies are almost unidentifiable. I didn't run. I stayed. I called the cops. Told them everything and they finally took me seriously. They took me seriously when they came rushing into that damn basement and were struck with the sight of me standing over the bodies. Wide eyes as they cuffed me, perhaps realizing the gravity of all of this, or maybe just thinking that I was fucking insane.
The optimistic part of me leaned toward the latter. Maybe they had realized that this all could have been avoided if they just listened. If they had just taken me seriously when I begged for help two years prior. When I was just a kid. Sixteen.
Maybe it was just horror that an eighteen year old could butcher five grown men the way I did. That was probably more likely.
The room I sat in was shittily lit. A one way window showing my reflection. Long golden blonde hair frizzy and greasy, a sorry state to how I normally cared for it. My complexion pale and my normally bright forest green eyes were dull and complemented by bruise like bags under them. I looked small in my shitty prison scrubs, probably from my lack of eating but also because I was given a large set for my five foot three size.
They actually almost made it impossible to tell that I was truly jacked under all of it. They made me look like a sheep, not the wolf I had proven myself to be. Maybe that was for the people witnessing the trial, for the families of those wretched men. To make the fear factor lesser. To make me as little of a threat as I could be made. Not that it helped when they showed the crime scene photos.
I truly didn't know why I was here actually. I already got sentenced, I was under the impression that they took the criminal straight to prison once they declared them guilty. It was a little nerve wracking to be honest. I was prepared for prison life, not… whatever this was.
Fortunately I wasn't waiting much longer. The door opens and I hate to say it but, I flinched. The silence had upped the tension in my shoulders. I nearly flew out of my seat.
A man that was maybe in his mid to late thirties walks in, salt and pepper hair and a glorious fucking beard/mustache thing. He lets the door shut and settles down in the chair across from me over the table. The first thing he does is unlock my cuffs from the bar on the table and free my sore wrists.
I pull them back and tuck them into my lap, tensing and preparing for a fight.
“I'm not here to hurt you. I'm here with an offer actually.” The man says.
I raise a brow, not offering him any verbal response.
He blazes ahead like the silence didn't bother him. “I'm Captain John Price. I run an elite task force called the 141. The task force isn't advertised to the world, we're a shadow company. We are a multinational unit with operatives from multiple countries.”
I blink. “So what does this have to do with me?”
“I'm interested in recruiting you. You have a skill set I could use on my team and I think it would be a waste to lock them away. I think you deserve a second chance and I'm offering you one right now.” Price says.
I scan the man's expression, distrust pouring from me in waves. “What would it mean for me if I chose to join your task force?”
“You'd be one of my operatives, I'd have you work with my best men to get you up to speed. You wouldn't serve any jail time and you'd be taken care of in any way you can think of. The pay is good too. You stick around for six years and you can feel free to retire and get off Scot free or, you stick with the task force and choose that as your career. You'd be my youngest recruit if you came with me today.” He explains.
I think about my options, jail until I'm eighty or join a task force and be out free by the time I'm twenty-four. It seemed pretty obvious to me. “... I'll do it. It seems like it's a better alternative than rotting in jail till I'm eighty over something that should have never happened.”
Price stands with a slight smile. “Good, let's get you out of here then shall we?”
I blink as he starts walking towards the door. “Wait just like that? I can walk out with you now?”
“Cars waiting up front, kid. Let's not keep the boys waiting.” He says.
I tense, the idea of a car of grown military men not sitting well with me. I follow silently, feeling the eyes of officers and civilians cautiously staring but never approaching, Price seemingly unbothered.
A large black suv sits in front of the court house, three men already waiting and ready inside. A younger dark skinned man sitting in the driver's seat, a man probably around the same age with a Mohawk behind him and then finally, a towering brute of a man with a skull mask over a balaclava next to him.
The man with the Mohawk steps out. “Cap'n.” He says with a nod, thick Scottish accent making itself known.
“Soap.” Price answers.
“This the lass? A bit smaller than I imagined she'd be. She's just a wee little thing.” He comments.
I glare at the man, wishing I didn't look like I came straight out of a pot of grease and had more muscle flattering clothes on. Though I'm sure with men their size, I was still small to them.
“Careful Soap, she looks like she could kill you in your sleep.” The man in the driver's seat says, eyeing me carefully.
Soap raises his hands in surrender “My bad lass, I didn't mean anythin by it. Just pokin’ fun.”
I huff and roll my eyes. “In you go.” Price says to me, gesturing for the middle seat. I tense further, hesitating and shuffling on my feet. I didn't feel particularly inclined to seat myself in between the silent masked man and the loud Scottish one.
“I…” my eyes flicker over the men and the empty seat.
“Ah, I see,” Price seems to recognize my hesitation before reaching for a large knife on his belt and pulling it free, then pulling a sidearm from its holster as well. I eye him cautiously and his men seem to be doing the same. “Take these. You seem like you'd feel more comfortable if you were armed.”
I blink, staring at the two objects before slowly grabbing them. I skillfully check the gun for bullets before I flip the safety off, holding it with my finger off the trigger and in tandem with the knife, both held at my lap. “Thank you.” I murmur, slowly walking forward and getting in the car, doing my damnedest not to brush the masked mans shoulder.
Price goes to the passenger side of the car and gets in. “Right, better introduce everyone. This here driving is Kyle Garrick.”
“Gaz is fine.” He says with a British accent.
“That loud one on your left is John MacTavish.”
“Just call me Soap.” He says.
“And the broody one with the skull face is Ghost.” Price says, not even bothering with a real name.
“What no name?”
“Ghost is fine.” The man says in a British accent, making me jump. I was almost sure he was a mute.
Price rolls his eyes. “Simon Riley if you really want to know. We use call-signs around here.”
“What's yours then?” I ask.
“I don't technically have one. Captain or Price is usually the go to.”
I nod. “Will I need one?”
“Eventually, when we find one that suits you.”
“I have an idea.” Gaz pipes up.
“By all means.” Price says, waving a hand for him to continue.
“How about Wolf? Because she's like a wolf in sheep's clothing. Small but deadly.” He suggests. A spark of appreciation for the guy pops in my chest. Not expecting it.
“Little Wolf would suit er’ better.” Ghost says.
I roll my eyes. “Not everyone can be a giant.” I mutter.
Soap laughs at my quiet snap back. “I think Wolf would fit right in. She's got a bite.”
Another one of those pesky sparks of appreciation. Maybe I'd get along with Gaz and Soap.
“You guys don't even have my real name yet and you're already giving me a callsign?” I ask.
“You don't approve of it?” Gaz asks.
“... I do. Wolf is good.”
“Good. By all means introduce yourself Wolf.” Gaz offers.
I was sure Price knew my name, he had my whole file after all. “Lilith Duvessa.” I say.
“Lilith “Wolf” Duvessa has a nice ring to it.” Gaz says.
“You go by any nicknames lass? Lilith is a bit of a mouthful no?” Soap asks.
“... I've never been given one so no.”
“No friends?” Soap asks.
“No.”
“Family?”
“Moms dead, dads a piece of shit.”
Soap looks ready to shoot off another question but to my surprise, Ghost is the one to shut him up.
“Let the girl breathe Johnny. Stop nagging.” He says.
“Shoot me for being curious,” Soap says raising his hands up. “I'm calling you Lily. Lilith is too bloody difficult.”
“Or maybe, you Scottish bastard, you just can't speak English. Lilith isn't even hard.” Gaz says.
“Oy, it's harsh on me tongue.” He shoots back.
“Fucking hell.” Ghost mutters.
This felt like it was going to be a long car ride.