Chapter Text
The helicopter door yawned open with a metallic too-expensive scream, hot wind slamming into Sargeant Juniper Harlow as if the desert itself meant to shove her back where she came from. Wherever the hell that was. Boots hit the tarmac one measured step at a time, the weight of her rucksack dragging at her shoulder, fatigue hidden beneath skin biting into old scar tissue she refused to acknowledge. Voices carried over the rotor wash, some laughter, skepticism, the sharp-edged curiosity reserved for newcomers. She kept her eyes forward, jaw tight. She’d been stared at before. Judged before. Survived worse before. The men clustered near the hangar barely spared her a second glance, writing her off as another medic attachment, too small and too quiet to matter in a unit of legends. Forgotten. But from the catwalk above, a single gaze tracked her movement with unsettling precision, noting the way she scanned exits, the way her hand brushed the butt of her rifle like habit rather than insecurity, the way she shifted her weight off her left leg when she thought no one was looking. Captain John Price didn’t say a word, didn’t call her attention to the fact that she was seen, but the faint lift of his brow told her he’d already made some kind of assessment. The others would learn her truth. For now, she was just “the new girl,” another body to patch holes and carry stretchers. She exhaled, steady and controlled, letting the chaos wash over her as the helicopter door slammed shut behind her. New base. New team. Same silence. And buried somewhere beneath the noise and diesel fumes, just for a heartbeat, she swore she heard the echo of a tune no one else remembered. Almost a flicker of hope, buried deep inside. Maybe this base will be different. Likely? Not. Two pairs of boots marched toward the infamous task force, a group of men feared in almost as many countries as they were wanted in.
"Captain Price, I see you still have the same scowl after all these years. Mus' be another Brit thing" Laswell joked as she held out a hand, firmly shaking the Captains. Price chuckled, a warm friendly smile on his lips, but it couldn't hide the undercut of tension as he fought not to glare at the new "team member" to Laswell's left. Team member. It made Juniper want to roll her eyes so hard her vision blurred. She was hardly a team member. A member of anything. She was just...her. And they were them. The real soldiers. The ones who deserved that title. "Suppose so. Better than bein’ a youngin' stuck in the middle of nowhere Maryland" he teased back, finally glancing toward Juniper as if he hadn't just examined her head-to-toe moments before. "See you brought a new recruit. Thought field medical was arriving today? My men on base have missions to accomplish and brass is getting fed up with postponing. Any idea when they're arriving?" The air thickened for half a second, a tick of silence going on for longer than it was intended. Laswell spoke up with a huff of air "You're looking at your head medic. Captain. Her team arrives at 1830 hours. This is Sergeant First Class Juniper Harlow. Callsign: Canary. The head honcho of the best dual combat medical team the special forces has to offer, per your request. Daughter of a special forces Air Force vet, discharged from front lines combat a year and a half ago. After Operation Red Ridge. I trust she will do your team well." All eyes fell onto the small woman. Even Ghost’s head tilted a fraction, the kind of acknowledgment he rarely gave anyone new. Dual combat? Special forces? Earned a callsign? Another tick of silence. "Juniper. Welcome to base". Price extended a hand. It wasn't taken. She met his eye. "June." She corrected, voice flat, and dull
Silence. Again. Two Ticks. "Now now, Canary. Be nice to Captain. I don't feel like doing all the paperwork if he ships you back to me in a week" Laswell added, saluting with a sarcastic wink and flick of two fingers from her eyebrow outward. The name hit June like cold water, no matter how far she got from Red Ridge, Canary always followed. "I've got bout 200 more things to do today so I'll see you bunch next time brass sends me to cover your asses. MacTavish, do me a favor and show your new head medic to the med staff barracks?". June reluctantly stepped forward, while the teams Scotsman nodded firmly, naturally turning to walk together. Even if she radiated mystery, John "Soap" MacTavish, would never miss a chance to escort a lass like her anywhere. Soap meant well. Everyone on base could tell you he was a great guy. Just...forward. He was young and oh so touch starved on a base full of testosterone. She was womanly. Maybe not typically beautiful, if "typical" even mattered. She was the kind of young woman that could kick ass and glue a house to a home in the same day. She had full lips, fuller hips, a softness in places that made her seem human, and a strength in the places that meant she’d earned every damn step she took. Her eye's were greener than polished jade stones, and hair a wild blonde that was clipped back, a few stray pieces falling free. Soap gave her a once-over. Quick. Not subtle, but not disrespectful, like a man taking inventory rather than undressing her with his eyes. Even if part of him admired what he saw. "So, Canary,” Soap said with a grin that was half warm, half trouble. “What’s a nice lass like you doing in a madhouse like this?” he asked, just a few feet away from the group, giving her a subtle smirk. Sergeant Harlow stopped in her tracks, eyes rolling as she turned to him, scoffing as soon as she saw the look in his eyes. Despite the size difference she puffed her chest out and was already stepping up to him "Do NOT ogle over me like I am a toy." She spat. "And don’t mistake me for something pretty to look at, soldier. I’m here to keep you alive, not entertain you. I ended up on a Special Forces base by busting my fuckin ass." Her eyes snap to Laswell, as if that were the only person she didn't feel rage toward (but trusted was still too strong of a word) "Kate, I swear to fu-"
Before she could curse the world up and down another, deeper, richer voice spoke up, sounding like it smoked a pack a day since 18, belonging to a man who naturally garnered authority. John Price. The John Price. "Easy Sergeant. I apologize for Soaps...enthusiasm" He shot MacTavish a look that was equal parts warning and fond exasperation before turning back to her. “Right. C’mon. I’ll give you the tour. We’re a rough lot, but base’ll make sense once you find your feet. Follow on.” Harlow took a deep breath and gave a firm nod toward Laswell to bid her goodbye. She followed Captain Price with her head held high, a tightness in her jaw most would never notice. Though, the highly trained operative next to her obviously does. "You're defensive." he states. Not a question. A statement. "I'm prepared." She countered. He did not answer. But instead continued to assess her as they walked through the flightline, Price placing his body on the outside of the sidewalk naturally. He was raised a gentleman. “Stay tight on the left. Flightline stays hot most hours,” Price said as they passed a row of idling transports. They walked through the hangars, then vehicle yard, Price pointing out things as they went. “Motor pool’s there. Don’t block the lanes unless you want a mechanic chewing your arse off,” Price muttered, pointing at safety features, mission norms, reminding her of military regs, supply areas, as if it were her first time ever on a military base. It wasn't. “Bravo Base is straightforward—if you’re competent,” Price added, glancing her way. “Laswell’ll send over your files. I’ll get the white coats to print your badge. Grants you access to what you need. Infirmaries yours. Last team left it stocked… government issue, anyway. Decorate it if you care to. Long as you patch up my men, don’t matter to me.” They reached the steps leading into HQ, steel doors ahead of them, the hum of Task Force life vibrating through the walls. Then, almost as silent as the hum of the LEDs, June sucked in a breath each time she had to bear all her weight on her right hip. Price clocked it. She knew he did. They didn't bring it up. Not yet, at least.
Swiping his official military ID badge, Price led juniper into HQ, shamelessly staring at her leg as if it could tell her why it was t. After the lobby, they entered an elevator and rode up to a large hub with rapid flutter of military work all around them. Command offices, briefing rooms, Radio/Comms hub, Intel, Task Force offices. “This is where 141 does most of its thinkin’. Rest happens out there,” he said, jerking his chin toward the desert. “141’s wing is down the hall. Med bay is two floors up. Barracks are further east. You’ll get used to it.” He finally glanced at her, a true look that wasn't as assessment this time. "Want to see the barracks, or the med bay first?". She thought for a step or two. "Med Bay. I want to see where I'll be working and take an inventory before my team arrives. It's important my infirmary is arranged to handle aftermath of large-scale operations. Whether one of your men stumbles in with a papercut, or an entire fleet of soldiers needs us after a mission gone awry, my team needs the supplies and the set up to handle it. I won't lose a soldier." She spoke, her voice professionally firm, with a hint of burning desire. She chased the adrenaline. Craved it. Just like he did once, twenty-some-odd years ago when he first joined the British SAS. He nodded firmly, and lead her past the desks of HQ, to a set of private elevators that only his badge could open
The elevator took them up two floors, June standing with her weight on her left leg. She broke the silence "What happened to the last team? Bomb? Airstrike? Kidnapped?". Price chuckled lowly, shaking his head as the doors parted, showing an infirmary that had the bones, but not the heartbeat. Government-issue gear lined the walls, every crate perfectly stacked, every cot perfectly unused. It was a place built for blood and noise, but right now it was nothing but quiet. A space in need of someone to bring it back online. "Just a major reassignment. A new base was built in South America and the Bravo med team fit their needs to a T. Been about two weeks now with no on sight medical. My team has had to get bandaged up in the base 30 miles north and pray they don't get into any major trouble.". June nodded, running her hand along one of the cots as she walked by it, following Price down to the largest office. "I should have it fully operational by Monday." She spoke, Price corrected "You will." She let out a huff of air but nodded firmly, ignoring the internal eyeroll at how easy he made it sound. But she would try. They entered the empty office, just a desk, a chair, a few filing cabinets and an old computer. He pointed things out, explained the lights, the security measures, the other offices the higher ups on her team could use. It took only a few moments, and they made their way out, back toward the elevators, this time headed toward the barracks. Price requested information about her medical staff and chain of command.
"Well..." she began "I'm obviously the SMO, Senior Medical Officer, my second-in-command Deputy Medic Ross, and my four combat medics, all CSAR certified E-4 Specialists, Lane, Kincaid, Maeve, and Blake. Us 6 take the field on missions. If backup is needed, my CMs take it. I run point. They report to me, I report to.... you." Price nodded, voice still professional, lacking any warmth "Lab techs? Pharmacy? Nurses?" He asked, she nodded, listing notable members of her staff, needs, wants. credibility. By the time she was done debriefing him, the pair had reached a common room area, attached to a shared kitchen, a large pool table where a coffee table would go, and various armchairs. Weapons lined the walls, emergency gear hung by the doors on labeled hooks. Like most of the base, it was built for operation, but it had the slight charm of men who could finally let free for just a moment. A haven. A home, if you dared. They walked forward until a branch in the walkway, pointing out left to right. "To your right is the shared barracks for the Privates on base, and to the left is the officers' quarters. Ahead is Special Operations Support Barracks, and the very end is my room. You being head medical you're stationed next to me." They walked down tons of rooms, the same cookie cutter reflection of barracks she had seen a million and one times before, before he pushed open a door that smelt faintly of shared cigars and old not-so-flattering cologne from the head medic before her. "Belonged to a friend of 141s. Head Medic Martin. Treat it well, Canary. I trust you'll settle in quick."
Juniper stepped forward into the room, setting down her rucksack and taking in the bland interior. A bed, thin sheets, two pillows. A dresser that would fit only the essentials, if she even had more than that. Came with a mini fridge, though. Total score in their world. She turned back to price, a flicker of warmth in his eyes, seeing the layers of the new puzzle joining their ranks. Except, hers were steel. Cold, hard, professional. "It's only Canary on the field. June. Just June. If its not Sergeant, or Harlow." Price's face matched hers immediately, and they stared at each other like it was a contest. He didn't sense disrespect. He didn't even sense much anger, honestly. This woman may fix others for a living, but he notices quick that no one has fixed her. "Report to the debriefing room beside the armory Monday 0600 hours. Have your weekend, Harlow." He said, voice gentler than to most of the newbies. She was a new assignment, not a new soldier. He knew that. Yet, he was about to know a lot more after a lengthy call with Laswell and finding out whatever the database read about her. Laswell wouldn't give his team a ticking time bomb with no reason, and by the looks of it they got along pretty well. He nodded, she muttered a goodbye, and he went straight to his office, reading glasses already being cleaned off by the fabric of his undershirt.
Three Hours Later
Price scrubbed a hand over his beard, eyes dry and tired of working, thumb dragging slowly across the edge of his jaw as the encrypted line on his desk pulsed for attention. K. LASWELL — SECURE VIDEO CHANNEL REQUESTED. Of course she wanted to talk. He accepted, leaning forward as her face sharpened into clarity on the small monitor. “So?” she asked without preamble. “First impressions?" Price huffed, settling back into his chair with the weight of someone who’d seen enough for one day. “Not what I expected.” “Meaning?” Her tone was neutral, but her posture sharpened. “She’s young, Kate." "Twenty-seven,” Laswell corrected. “Not a child.” “For what she’s done?” He shook his head. “Christ, she’s barely older than Soap.” Laswell didn’t comment on that. Just watched him. Studied him. She knew him too well. He dragged her file closer with two fingers, flipping through the pages again even though he already knew what they said. Injury accommodations. Former special operations clearance. A handful of deployments. A commendation list impressive enough to raise eyebrows. All of it sterile. Useful. And painfully incomplete. “I saw her record,” he muttered. “The public one. Basic service history, MOS, deployment stamps. Her medical accommodations visible. But everything that matters?” He tapped a blank portion of the paper with a dull thud. “Scrubbed. Hard. Who did it?” “People above my pay grade,” she replied evenly. Price gave her a look. “Since when does that stop you?” A faint smile ghosted across her lips. “I gave you what I was allowed to give you.” “Which is?” he pressed. “That she’s good. And she’s loyal. And she’s survived things most don’t walk away from.” His jaw tightened at that. His mind flickered back—June shifting her weight, subtly, carefully. Thinking no one was watching her leg as she walked beside him. A limp she forced into a rhythm that almost passed for normal. He leaned in slightly. “About the limp.” Laswell didn’t blink. “Accommodation from Red Ridge.” “That’s the injury,” Price said. “Not the cause.” “Classified.” “Kate—” She cut him off smoothly. “She wouldn’t be on that base, under your command, if she weren’t capable.” Then, quieter: “And if you’re asking whether she’s a liability, the answer is no. She’s hiding things,” Laswell allowed. “But not the kind you think.” “And her special operations history?” “Also classified.” Price stared at her long and hard. “She had the posture of SAS. And the eyes.” “The eyes?” Laswell asked, head tilting. “The kind that’ve seen too many rooms that shouldn’t exist.” Laswell’s expression didn’t change, but silence stretched thin. “Her callsign?” he pushed. “Classified.” “Bloody hell,” he muttered. “It’s hers to tell, John. Not mine.” He exhaled, low and irritated. This felt like the kind of assignment that arrived with invisible strings attached. And yet there was something else. Something Laswell wasn’t saying but absolutely knew. She always did. “She’ll be good for 141,” she said finally. “And you’ll be good for her.”
Price stiffened. “Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought it.”
“That’s your problem, not mine.”
He grumbled under his breath and ended the call before she could smirk again. The screen went black, leaving him alone in the dim quiet of his office. He sat back in his chair, letting the truth settle with unwelcome weight. And for the first time that day, Price realized, Laswell didn’t bring him a medic.
She brought him a mystery.