Jester

👑 CHAPTER ONE - If You Hear Me Laughing

The silence doesn’t arrive gently, nor does it settle into the space like something earned; instead, it crashes into the comms all at once, abrupt and suffocating, as if the building itself has drawn in a breath and decided not to give it back.
One moment there is gunfire—sharp, chaotic, overlapping bursts that rattle through the concrete bones of the structure—and the next there is nothing but the ringing absence of it, a hollow quiet that presses against the ears and makes the mind scramble to fill it with something that makes sense.
Price remains crouched behind the fractured slab of cover, his rifle still trained on the corridor where hostiles had been moving seconds before, yet even he doesn’t fire, because there is nothing left to shoot at, and that alone is enough to set something uneasy curling low in his chest.
Soap exhales beside him, the sound rough and disbelieving as he drags a hand over his face, smearing dust and sweat across skin already flushed from the fight, and though he tries for humor out of habit, there’s a thin edge beneath it that refuses to be ignored. “Tell me that’s not what I think it is,” he mutters, quieter than usual, as if speaking too loudly might disturb whatever just swallowed the firefight whole.
Gaz doesn’t answer, not because he lacks one, but because every explanation he reaches for falls apart before it can settle, leaving him staring down the corridor with a tension that has nothing to do with the mission parameters and everything to do with the fact that this isn’t how things are supposed to go.
Ghost tilts his head slightly, the subtle shift the only outward sign that his attention has sharpened beyond the visible, as though he is listening for something that exists just outside the range of ordinary sound, and when it comes, it does not announce itself in any way that feels right.
At first it is nothing more than a faint distortion threaded through the comms, something that could easily be dismissed as interference if it weren’t for the shape it begins to take, uneven and wavering, like a melody that never quite learned how to exist properly.
Humming.
It slips through the silence in thin, fragile strands, soft enough to be overlooked and yet impossible to ignore once it has been noticed, because it carries with it a familiarity that none of them want to acknowledge out loud.
Soap’s breath catches in something that might have been a laugh on any other day, but now lands wrong in his chest, hollow and uneasy as he shakes his head with a quiet, incredulous sound. “Ah… hell,” he murmurs, the words lacking their usual bravado as recognition settles in.
Price’s grip tightens fractionally on his rifle, not out of fear, but out of something more complicated, something that sits heavy behind his ribs as he keys his comm. “Jester,” he says, his voice level by force of will rather than ease, “report.”
The humming continues, unbroken and unhurried, and beneath it, almost as an afterthought, comes the sound of footsteps.
They are not rushed. They do not carry the frantic urgency of someone escaping danger or pursuing it. Instead, they fall with an almost absent rhythm, light and measured, as though the chaos that had filled the corridor moments ago had never existed at all.
A shape begins to form at the far end, half-obscured by smoke and flickering light, and for a brief, suspended moment, none of them move, because something in the stillness warns against it, something instinctive and deeply human that recognizes when a situation has slipped beyond the boundaries of normal understanding.
Then she steps forward, and the illusion breaks.
At first glance, Jester appears untouched, her posture loose and unguarded in a way that would be careless on anyone else, yet on her reads as something entirely different, something deliberate, and it is only when the light catches properly that the truth of it becomes impossible to ignore.
Blood stains her hands in uneven streaks, dark and drying where it clings to her skin, and there is more of it splattered along her arms, across the fabric of her gear, marking her not as someone who passed through violence, but as someone who stood at the center of it and chose not to step away.
Her gaze moves over them quickly, not in suspicion, but in confirmation, counting each familiar face with a precision that speaks of something deeper than habit, something closer to necessity, and when she finds what she is looking for, the tension in her shoulders eases in a way that is almost imperceptible unless you know to look for it.
The smile that follows is small, but real.
“There you are,” she says, her voice carrying a warmth that feels out of place against the backdrop she emerged from, as though she has stepped out of one world and into another without noticing the difference. “Was wonderin’ where you lot got to.”
Soap stares at her for a long moment, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and something that edges dangerously close to awe, before his gaze flicks past her shoulder toward the corridor that now stands empty in a way it has no right to be. “Where did they get to?” he asks, though part of him already knows the answer and isn’t entirely sure he wants to hear it spoken aloud.
Jester follows his glance as if the question has only just reminded her of something trivial, her head tilting slightly as she considers it, and when she looks back, there is no weight to her response, no hesitation, nothing to suggest that what she did carries any significance beyond completion.
“Sorted,” she replies simply, the word landing with a softness that feels entirely at odds with what it represents.
Gaz steps forward before he can stop himself, the need for clarity overriding the instinct to leave well enough alone, and when he speaks, there is a carefulness to his tone that wasn’t there before. “All of them?” he asks, because details matter, because understanding matters, because if he doesn’t ask now, the question will follow him long after the mission ends.
There is a pause, brief but deliberate, and in that space something shifts, subtle enough that it could be imagined, yet real enough to settle unease deeper into the bones of the moment.
Jester’s shoulder lifts in a small, almost dismissive shrug. “Would’ve been rude to leave it half done,” she says, and though the words are light, there is something beneath them that doesn’t quite reach the surface, something sharper than humor and far more difficult to name.
Soap exhales, the sound rough as he drags a hand through his hair, a grin tugging weakly at his mouth as he tries to reclaim ground that feels like it’s slipping. “Christ, Jester,” he mutters, though whether it’s admiration or concern that drives it, even he isn’t entirely sure.
Ghost closes the distance then, his movements controlled and purposeful as he steps into her space, his gaze sweeping over her with a thoroughness that misses nothing, cataloguing the blood, the steadiness of her stance, the absence of visible injury, before settling on her eyes with a focus that is as steady as it is unyielding.
“Status,” he says, his voice low, not unkind, but leaving no room for deflection.
Jester meets his stare without flinching, though for a fraction of a second something flickers there, something that might have been sharper, harder, if it had been allowed to take hold. “All limbs accounted for,” she answers, the corners of her mouth lifting just enough to suggest humor. “No new holes. Bit messy, but I’ll live.”
Ghost doesn’t move, doesn’t let the moment slide past on the surface answer alone, and the silence that follows stretches just long enough to make it clear that he is asking for more than a physical report.
“That wasn’t the question,” he says, quieter this time, though no less firm.
For a heartbeat, the space between them tightens, and in that narrow, fragile pause, something real presses against the edges of Jester’s composure, something that doesn’t quite belong to the version of herself she shows the world.
“I know,” she admits, and the words carry a softness that feels dangerously close to honesty.
Price steps forward then, grounding the moment before it can unravel further, his presence steady and unyielding in a way that has less to do with authority and more to do with the quiet, unwavering support he offers without ever naming it. “You went off-comms,” he says, not as an accusation, but as a fact that cannot be ignored.
Jester’s gaze shifts to him, and for a fleeting second, the weight she carries becomes visible in the set of her shoulders, in the way her fingers flex at her side as though they are remembering something they have not yet let go of. “Didn’t have time,” she replies, and while it is true, it is not complete.
Price studies her, something paternal and deeply tired softening the edge of his expression, and though he could push, could demand more, he chooses not to—not here, not when the mission still breathes around them. “Next time,” he says instead, his tone firm but not unkind, “you call it.”
There is a flicker of something in her eyes—gratitude, perhaps, or relief—and she nods once, small but certain. “Next time,” she echoes, as though the promise is one she intends to keep, even if neither of them fully believes it.
Soap nudges her shoulder then, the gesture light, familiar, an attempt to stitch the moment back together into something easier to hold. “Remind me never to piss you off, yeah?” he says, a grin pulling at his lips as he leans into the role that keeps things from breaking. “I’d like to keep all my bits where they are.”
Jester lets out a quiet huff of laughter, the sound warmer now, more genuine, as she bumps him back with an ease that suggests this is where she belongs, this space carved out between chaos and something that almost resembles normal. “Aw, Johnny,” she replies, her tone teasing, “you’re one of my favorites.”
Gaz watches the exchange, some of the tension easing from his posture, though his eyes remain thoughtful, searching for the line he knows exists even if he cannot always see it. When he steps closer, his voice is softer, carrying a sincerity that cuts through everything else. “You good?” he asks, and unlike the others, he isn’t asking about the mission.
Jester looks at him properly then, the question landing somewhere deeper than the rest, and for a brief, fragile moment, the noise in her head quiets just enough to let something real surface.
“Yeah,” she says, and this time it almost sounds true.
Ghost turns away first, already shifting his focus back to the world beyond the moment, because standing still too long in something like this has a way of unraveling things that are better left intact. “Move,” he orders, his voice cutting cleanly through the space.
They fall into formation as they always do, each step measured, practiced, familiar, and Jester slips back into place among them with the same ease, as though she had never stepped out of line at all.
For just a second longer than she should, her gaze drifts back toward the corridor she came from, toward the silence she left behind, and though nothing moves there, nothing stirs, the memory of it lingers in the slight twitch of her fingers, in the way her shoulders settle as she turns away.
As they move out, the comms remain quiet, carrying nothing but the sound of their breathing and the distant hum of a building slowly settling back into stillness.
And beneath it, so soft it is almost nothing at all, a faint thread of sound weaves through the static.
Humming.
Not loud enough to demand attention.
Just quiet enough to be missed—unless you already know it’s there. 🖤