Birth Of Kraken
Nizhoni Vargas always had a fascination with the military, even from a young age. At the ripe age of 16, she joined as a junior soldier. Finishing all her training, getting into Airborne, and then eventually SAS. By the time she was 20, she was a Corporal.
Meeting 141 for the first time. John “Soap” MacTavish, nice guy, hard to understand. Simon “Ghost” Riley, not a fan, he’s too stoic. John Price, father, seems nice. Kyle “Gaz” Garrick, ahh, what's not to say about him? Kate Laswell, motherly, I like her. She's cool.
First day at the base, early mornings were never Nizhoni’s thing, but here she was getting her PT in with the rest of the group. Her face covered like Ghost, with a plain black balaclava, out running them all at a good pace, “On your left.”
“What the…” Soap panted as she passed right by him like it was nothing.
“Ah ha, Soap got passed by a chick” Gaz laughed at him. Ghost remained stoic as usual but kept his pace. Price simply watched over them all, completely impressed by Nizhoni.
“Vargas!” Price shouted, causing Nizhoni to stop running, “Yes, sir!” she yelled back and ran to him. “Yes, Captain?” she asked, standing at ease in front of him.
“At ease, soldier. What brings you here?” he asked.
“Laswell, sir. She thought I would be a good fit.” She seemed so professional. Price looked at her, “What’s with the…” He gestured to the face covering.
“It’s personal, sir. I had some issues with people going after my family after I had pissed them off… It became a habit after a few years.” She answered with no hesitation in her voice.
“I see, it doesn't affect your performance?”
“No, sir, it doesn't affect it at all,” she replied.
“What do they call you?” Price asked, studying her like he was weighing steel.
“They call me ‘Königin,’ sir.”
His brow lifted slightly. “That’s not English.”
“No, sir.” Her voice didn’t waver. “It’s German.”
“And it means?”
“Queen.”
Silence stretched between them. Not awkward — measured.
“Königin,” he repeated slowly, like he was testing the shape of it. Then his gaze sharpened. “You plan on ruling something?”
A beat.
“No, sir,” she replied evenly. “Just winning.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. Approval.
“Alright then, Königin.” He stepped aside, granting space without quite yielding it. “Welcome to the team.”
After PT, they met in the briefing room for Konigin to meet the team, The 141. The briefing room door slid open, and Price stepped in. She followed right behind, uniform and still wearing a black balaclava. Conversation died mid-sentence.
Gaz noticed first. Not consciously. Not at first. Just a shift in the air. She didn’t walk in like someone new. No hesitation. No overcompensating confidence either. Just controlled presence. Balanced. Deliberate. And something about that…
His gaze tracked her without meaning to. Not just attractive — though she was. It was the stillness. Like she wasn’t trying to prove anything.
Soap MacTavish nudged his boot lightly under the table. “You’re staring.”
“I’m assessing,” Gaz muttered back.
“Mhmm.”
Across the room, Ghost hadn’t moved at all. From the start, he didn't like her. That was obvious.
“They call me Königin,” she said.
Her voice carried. Calm. Even. Gaz felt it — that quiet weight to it. No tremor. No edge.
“It’s German,” she added when prompted. “Means Queen.”
He could see it. Not in ego. In posture. Ghost cut in with his low, flat, “Arrogant.”
Gaz’s jaw tightened slightly. She didn’t flinch at Ghost. Didn’t shrink. Didn’t push back emotionally either.
“It’s a callsign,” she said. “Not a personality trait.”
Ghost scoffed at her comment. “Don’t make a habit of it.” He said coldly.
“Och, Ghost, quit bein’ such a grumpy bastard, eh?” Soap chimed in, nudging Ghost’s shoulder. Ghost simply stared at him, deadpanned.
Weeks later; the first mission as a team.
Soap leaned forward on his elbows in heli as they flew to the destination, “So, Konigin, is that earned or self-appointed?”
She knew eventually this kind of conversation would come up, “They started calling me that after I cleared the rooftop in under four minutes,” her tone even, “Seventeen confirmed, no misses.”
The team looked amazed, impressed. No one said anything she broke the silence, tilting her head, “You?”
Soap grinned, “Explosives, breaching. Bit o’choas”
“Aye,” Ghost muttered, “heavy on the chaos.”
Soap shot him a glare, “I'm precise”
Königin’s lips twitched faintly. “I prefer precision that doesn’t level the building.”
Gaz choked back a laugh. Soap leaned back in his chair, amused rather than offended. “Oh? And what happens when your perfect little perch gets compromised?”
She met his gaze without blinking. “Then I stop being a sniper.”
There was no bravado in it. Just a fact. Ghost’s eyes shifted to her properly now.
“And?” he prompted, low and testing. Konigin adjusted the weight of her vest and answered, “Knives. Close quarters. I adapt. You forget Ive been doing it since I was sixteen.”
That earned a reaction.
Price’s gaze sharpened slightly. Soap’s grin faded into something more assessing. Ghost leaned back slowly in his chair, studying her in that quiet, predatory way he had.
“Corporal at twenty,” Gaz muttered. “That’s not nothing.”
“No,” Ghost agreed softly.
It wasn’t praise, it was acknowledgment. Soap drummed his fingers on his knee, then flashed her another grin — less teasing now, more intrigued.
“Well then, Your Majesty,” he said lightly, gesturing toward the back of the plane, “Let’s see if the crown fits.”
Ghost stood first. “Four minutes?” he asked quietly.
She didn’t turn around.
“Three-fifty-two.”
Ghost gave a faint scoff — not dismissive. Almost impressed. Then he jumped out, followed by Price, Soap, Gaz then Konigin.
Eastern Bloc — 0200 Hours
Rain slicked the rooftops silver. Königin lay prone, rifle settled as it belonged there. Breath slow. Steady. Controlled. Below, the warehouse yard buzzed with armed movement. Hostiles pacing. Floodlights sweeping lazily.
Price’s voice crackled in her comm. “Eyes on the target building?”
“Affirmative,” she murmured. “Second-story office. East-facing windows. Two inside. One pacing.”
Ghost and Soap were moving in from ground level — silent, shadows slipping between shipping containers. Gaz stayed mid-perimeter, covering the southern exit. “Wind?” Ghost’s voice came through low.
“Negligible.” A pause. “You’ve got a patrol rotating behind you in twenty seconds.”
Soap muttered, “That’s why we bring royalty.”
Königin ignored him. Her finger tightened. A deep, steady breath.
Crack.
The first hostile dropped before he could shout. Two seconds.
Crack.
The second one folded mid-step. Ghost and Soap moved through the blind spot seamlessly. Inside the warehouse, chaos tried to bloom — shouting in another language, scrambling boots. She shifted positions without lifting her eye from the scope. The target in the office window raised a radio.
Crack.
Glass spiderwebbed inward. He collapsed backward.
“Office clear,” she said calmly.
Gaz’s voice carried something new in it. “That was clean.”
“Focus,” Ghost snapped.
Another hostile burst from a side door — heading straight toward Soap’s blind side. She didn’t warn him; she just fired. The man dropped inches from Soap.
Soap froze, then glanced up toward her rooftop. “Right then. Cheers.”
Ghost didn’t say anything, but he did look up. And this time it wasn’t a casual assessment. It was something sharper.
Ten Minutes Later — Extraction
They regrouped near the exfil vehicle. Rain heavier now. Gaz approached her first. “You adjusted for recoil before the third shot,” he said, almost impressed. “Most snipers overcorrect.”
“I don’t overcorrect,” she replied evenly.
A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. “Clearly.”
Ghost stepped between them — not aggressive, just deliberate.
“You didn’t call the shot behind Soap.” It wasn’t a compliment. It was a challenge. She met his stare. “You were micromanaging comms. He was out of time.”
“You broke formation.”
“I prevented a body bag.” She snapped back at him.
Soap looked between them like he was watching a tennis match. “Technically, she’s got a point—”
Ghost cut him off. “Snipers relay.”
“When it’s efficient,” she shot back. “Not when it’s faster to pull the trigger.”
Silence, only the sound of rain hitting tactical gear. Gaz shifted slightly closer to her side — subtle, but there. Ghost noticed, of course, he did. His jaw ticked once beneath the mask.
“You don’t freelance on my field,” he said quietly. Controlled. Dangerous.
Her voice dropped to match. “Then don’t hesitate.”
Soap audibly inhaled. Price stepped in before it escalated. “Enough. We got the objective. Debrief back at base.”
Ghost held her gaze a second longer. Then walked past her, shoulder-checking her enough to piss her off. Gaz lingered.
“For what it’s worth,” he said quietly, “I’d rather have the shot land than hear the warning.” She glanced at him.
“You're always this diplomatic?”
He smiled faintly. “Only when I’m impressed.”
Across the lot, Ghost stiffened — just slightly. He’d heard that; he wasn’t happy with anything she was doing.
Base — Firing Range — Following Week in the Evening
Most of the team had cleared out. Königin didn’t, she never did, she was always training to be the best she could be. She adjusted her scope, recalculated the distance without checking the marker. Breath in. Half out.
Crack.
Dead center. A slow clap echoed behind her.
Gaz.
“You ever miss?” he asked, stepping into the stall beside her.
“Not when it matters.”
He smiled at that. Not cocky — impressed. He watched the way she reset her rifle. Efficient. No wasted motion. No ego. Just discipline.
“You corrected for the crosswind before it shifted,” he said. “You felt it?”
“I heard it,” she replied. “Through the concrete.”
He blinked. “That’s… mildly terrifying.”
A faint smirk ghosted her lips. They fell into a rhythm after that. Shooting side by side. Trading quiet observations. Not competing — calibrating. Gaz wasn’t trying to outdo her; he was trying to understand her. And that? That she noticed.
The next morning — Training Op
Close-quarters drill. Price paired them intentionally, Gaz and Königin.
Ghost noticed immediately that the drill started clean — entry, sweep, clear.
Until Gaz took a simulated hit protecting her blind side. The buzzer sounded.
“Reset,” Price called.
Gaz pulled off his helmet, breathing hard. “You moved before I did.”
“You hesitated,” she replied calmly.
He grinned. “I was admiring your form.” She rolled her eyes — but there was warmth there now. Ghost stepped in. “You admire on your own time,” he said flatly.
Gaz straightened. “With respect, sir, I had it.”
“You had nothing,” Ghost replied. “You were distracted.”
The air shifted. Königin stepped between them slightly. “He moved because I adjusted pace.”
Ghost’s eyes snapped to hers.
“You don’t adjust pace without callout.”
“I adapt.”
“That’s not how teams function.”
“It is when they keep up.” She looked Ghost up and down. He was becoming a threat.
Soap sucked in a breath somewhere behind them. Gaz looked at her — something deeper in his expression now. Not just admiration. Protectiveness.
Price intervened again. “Enough. Königin, you run the next drill with Ghost.”
A test, Ghost didn’t look pleased. Gaz didn’t look thrilled either, but he stepped back.
And for the first time, Königin felt the split forming. They squared up on the mat, Ghost moved first, fast and controlled. He closed the distance, trying to overpower her early. Königin pivoted, breaking his grip and striking back hard enough to earn a grunt. He countered immediately, twisting her off balance and driving her to the mat aggressively.
She didn’t stay down. They rolled, traded positions, each denying the other control. No wasted motion. No hesitation. A sharp strike here, a hard takedown there. It wasn’t flashy—it was deliberate. A test of adaptability more than strength. For a second, she gained the upper hand. For a second, he took it back. Breathing hard, they broke apart at the same time.
Silence settled over the mat. Ghost extended a hand. She took it.
“Better,” he said.
Not approval, not quite. but enough, and Königin felt it clearly now—the quiet divide in the room. Something had shifted.
Later — Hallway
Gaz caught up to her. “He’s not wrong about comms,” he said gently. “But he’s… territorial.”
She glanced sideways. “Over what?”
He hesitated, then, softer: “Control.”
A beat. “And maybe,” he added quietly, “over you.”
She stopped walking. “That’s not how this works.” Gaz’s smile faded into something sincere.
“No,” he said. “But feelings rarely follow doctrine.” He left her with that. And upstairs, Ghost watched her pause in the corridor. Watched her think, she looked up and saw the skull mask looking down at her. Watched Gaz walk away, rivalry is no longer just professional. It’s personal.
Two Weeks Later: Solo Mission
Ghost didn’t clear it with Price. He told himself it was a tactical necessity. Off-books shipment. Black market weapons are moving through Baltic waters. If they intercepted it quietly, it could trace back to bigger players. He didn’t trust the intel chain. He trusted her skill set.
“You’re overwatch and package security,” Ghost told her in the hangar. No witnesses but the pilot. “Short op. In and out.”
“Price aware?” she asked.
A beat too long. “Need-to-know.”
She studied him, then nodded. That was the betrayal. Not a lie. An omission.
Baltic Sea — 0300 Hours
The vessel wasn’t supposed to be lit up like that. Floodlights cut through fog, too organized, too ready. The first RPG hit the port side, the deck erupted.
“Ambush!” someone shouted over comms.
Gunfire. Screaming metal. Smoke. Königin moved fast — too fast for panic. Returning fire. Dropping attackers cleanly from the rail. Then— Another explosion. The world tilted, the deck split, and the sea swallowed her whole.
Underwater
Cold, violent, endless. She fought upward but her gear was weighing her down or maybe nothing did. Maybe it was just shock, maybe it was panic, When she opened her eyes beneath the black water— She saw movement.
Long shapes twisting far below. Coiling, reaching, not human, not mechanical.
Just there. Her oxygen alarm screamed, the shapes pulsed closer, and something inside her cracked. Konni patrol boats circled wreckage before official rescue could arrive.
Vladimir Makarov’s network had been watching the shipment too. They found her unconscious in the water. Alive.
They took her to a room, solitude, no uniforms, no insignia just concrete. Cold lights. Questions.
“Who authorized?”, “Who sent you?”, “Who else knows?” She gave them nothing.
They deprived her of sleep first, with shock therapy. Then the sound of her screams began to scare her. In reality, she may not make it out alive. Water dripped constantly somewhere in the room. Every time she blinked too long, she saw it again—her own mind had broken— Tentacles in darkness.
Once, in the corner of the room, she swore she saw one curl around the ceiling pipe. She stopped trusting her own eyes. They beat her. Bruised ribs. Split lip. Cracked knuckles. They dangled information in front of her — fake recordings, altered radio chatter.
“Ghost left you.”
“Task Force doesn’t claim you.”
“Price signed off.”
Lies. Probably. Maybe. Isolation does strange things. She clung to one truth: She had never missed. Not a shot. Not a promise. She would not break now. Even when they submerged her head in water and held it there long enough for the creatures to return behind her eyelids. Even when they whispered that she was already dead to her unit. She gave them nothing.
Meanwhile — Back at Base
Price found the flight log. Unauthorized deployment. Signed off by Ghost. Soap nearly broke a table. Gaz didn’t say anything. That was worse.
Ghost stood rigid during the confrontation. “I assessed operational value,” he said flatly.
“You assessed alone,” Price snapped.
“She could handle it.”
“Could?” Gaz’s voice cut through — sharp for the first time.
Search teams found wreckage. No body. Declared KIA. Gaz didn’t accept it. Ghost didn’t react outwardly, he took care of the problem. Rumors surfaced.
Konni holding a silent operative who wouldn’t talk. A ghost story among mercenaries.
“She stares at the corners of rooms.”
“She laughs when there’s nothing there.”
“She doesn’t beg.”
“They call her the Queen of the Deep.”
Ghost heard that name once over intercepted comms. And something in his chest turned to ice. Because this time—He had missed. Once Konni was finished with her, no information could be gained she wasnt needed. They discarded her like last weeks sausage.
Northern Coastline — Dawn
The tide dragged her in like discarded cargo, cold, unmoving and barely breathing. Chimera patrol spotted the body first — uniform shredded, tactical vest half torn away. No insignia left. Salt-burned wounds. Old bruises layered over newer ones.
“Sir!” one of the men shouted over the surf. Nikolai moved first, boots sinking into wet sand. “She’s alive,” he muttered in surprise.
A shadow knelt beside him. Broad shoulders. Tactical mask pulled up. Eyes sharp but unsettled. Sebastian Krueger. He rolled her gently, checking pulse. Weak. But there.
“Verdammt…” he murmured under his breath.
No patches. No tags. Whoever she had been, someone had tried to erase it. Krueger didn’t hesitate. He lifted her carefully into his arms. She weighed less than she should have.
Chimera Safehouse — Infirmary
She woke screaming, no words, just raw sound. Krueger was the first one there.
“Hey— hey— ruhig,” he said low, hands raised, not touching her yet. “Alles gut. Du bist sicher.”
Her eyes were wide, she looked at him like she expected tentacles to crawl out of the corners. She clawed at her own arms as if trying to rip something off her skin.
“No— no—” she whispered, voice shredded. “They’re watching.”
Krueger didn’t understand the words fully. But he understood fear. He crouched beside her bed slowly. Removed his gloves. Set his rifle aside where she could see it was no threat.
“No monsters,” he said in careful English. His accent heavy. “Just walls. Just us.”
She stared at him, breathing ragged. “…Us?”
He nodded once. “Chimera.”
It meant nothing to her. Her eyes clouded. “…Who am I?”
Silence. No one had found identification, no digital trace, no recovered name. Krueger swallowed.
“You are alive,” he said simply. It was the only truth he had. She didn’t remember her rank. Didn’t remember her unit. Didn’t remember the sea — but she refused to go near windows that faced water.
When Krueger placed a rifle in her hands for evaluation— Her posture changed, perfect stance, natural grip. She adjusted the sight without being told, shot center mass. Three times.
Krueger lowered his binoculars slowly.
“…Natürlich,” he muttered.
Of course. Whoever she had been—She had been dangerous. He started retraining her gently. Not drilling, rebuilding. Morning runs, weapon maintenance. Hand-to-hand drills where he went slower than necessary — pretending she needed it. She didn’t. One afternoon, she disarmed him mid-spar, knife at his throat. Both of them breathing hard, she blinked down at him, bringing herself back to reality. “…Did I do that right?”
A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “Ja,” he said softly. “Very right.” She helped him up. Their hands lingered a second too long.
Chimera Safehouse — Weeks into Rebirth
By now, the girl who had washed up pale and broken on the northern coast was gone. She was Kraken. Her hair darkened, cut short to avoid distraction in combat drills. Her posture was taut, coiled, ready — like the predator she’d become. Every movement deliberate. Every glance sharp. The shadows no longer frightened her they were her allies.
Krueger had been patient. Slow, methodical. A soldier rebuilding another soldier, but with a human touch. He never pushed her too fast, never demanded her memory, only gave her control.
“You move like the ocean,” he said one evening as they cleaned weapons after drills. His voice was soft, almost German-tinged. “Sometimes calm, sometimes… lethal.”
She glanced at him, eyes calculating, but something softened at the nickname. “…I like that,” she admitted. “Kraken.”
Krueger nodded. “Fitting. Dangerous, unstoppable. But… still alive.”
It became her name, her armor, her identity. The past—Königin, the betrayal, the water, the tentacles—was tucked away in the deepest dark of her mind. She didn’t need it anymore.
The Chimera base became a crucible. She trained hard. She sparred with Krueger. Sometimes she bested him — other times he let her win, guiding her hand, subtly correcting her stance or grip. Every evening, Krueger made sure she ate, rested, stayed sharp, and slowly trusted. Their conversations weren’t long, but they were intimate: whispered tactics, half-smiles, soft laughter when a sparring move went wrong.
Chimera Safehouse-The Feelings
Krueger had fallen long before she realized it. The way she adapted, survived, commanded respect — it drew him in, tugged at his chest in a way he hadn’t expected. And Kraken… she felt it too. He wasn’t just a trainer or a rescuer. He was a constant. A safe harbor in a life that had pulled her under.
He was constant, a steady presence at her shoulder. A voice that didn’t waver. A hand at her back when the world felt like it was tipping. One evening, after drills had run long and the compound had gone quiet, she found him alone on the steps outside. No mask. No hardened posture. Just him.
She sat beside him without asking. For a while, neither of them spoke, the air was cool. Her shoulder brushed his — tentative at first. He didn’t move away. After a moment, his hand shifted, resting against hers. Not gripping. Not claiming. Just there. Her fingers curled slightly, testing. He answered by threading his through hers, slow enough to give her time to pull back. She didn’t only the warmth in the dark. And for once, neither of them felt like they were fighting to stay afloat.
She stared at their hands laced together and smiled. It wasn’t a wide smile. Not the sharp, defiant one she wore in training. This one was softer. Quieter. Almost fragile. His thumb brushed once against her knuckles—absentminded, grounding. The kind of touch that asked for nothing and promised nothing, yet meant everything. Something felt right. Not perfect. Not healed. But aligned.
For months, she’d carried herself like fractured glass — sharp edges, careful steps, always bracing for impact. She’d survived, adapted, fought. But she hadn’t felt whole. Not like this. Sitting beside him, fingers intertwined in the quiet dark, she felt the pieces settle into place. The noise in her head softened. The tension in her shoulders eased. For the first time in months, she wasn’t just enduring. She was breathing. And for the first time in months, she felt almost whole.