Soap had somehow managed to claw his way out of the industrial area. He was heavily injured, panting, and in so much goddamn pain that his vision was actively blurring. He could feel the thick, warm blood coating his wheaten fur, dripping steadily onto the cold concrete while his trembling legs desperately pulled him forward. Everything felt frighteningly warped at the edges, and the frantic pounding of his own heartbeat echoed in his ears—too fast, then too slow. He couldn't tell anymore.

Rounding a corner, Soap finally collapsed in a grimy, rain-slicked alley. His legs simply gave out under his weight, and he met the hard ground with a sharp, pained whine. This was bad. The mission had been straightforward: infiltrate an underground fighting ring known for abusing regular dogs and captured shapeshifters alike. At first, everything had gone smoothly—perhaps too smoothly. Now, he was on the brink of death, completely cut off from his team with zero chance of saving himself.

Another ragged whine left him as he tried to push himself up. His limbs refused to listen, failing to cooperate with his brain's commands even in the slightest. Aye, this is how ye die, Johnny. The thought terrified him, yet a numbing acceptance was slowly creeping in. He couldn't even muster the strength to shift back into his human form. Perhaps that would have made things easier.

His eyelids drifted shut, and he forced them back open with a weak huff. Nae like this. This wasn’t how he wanted to leave this earth. He was still so young. It felt wrong. It was wrong. Ye need tae get up. He tried again—God, he really did—but his broken body utterly refused to work. He could feel the bitter cold of the Manchester rain seeping deep into his bones.

Then, a voice cut through the dark. Lifting his heavy head, he saw the blurry silhouette of a stranger. The sound of worried words washed over him, though the actual meaning got lost in the fog of his fading mind. A soft, pained sound escaped his snout, and his tail gave a faint, pathetically sad wag against the concrete. Soap felt warm, gentle hands make contact with his matted coat, followed by a grunt of effort as the stranger lifted his heavy frame off the ground. Almost instantly, his vision tunneled, and the world faded to absolute black.

---

Soap couldn’t really remember the frantic rush to the vet, nor how he had ended up pinned to an operating table while strangers fought to save his life. But as he blinked his eyes open now, the agonizing pain had been reduced to a dull, heavy ache, thoroughly muted by whatever heavy medication the vet had pumped into his system. He blinked slowly, shaking his head until the fog cleared. This wasn't a sterile clinic, it wasn't the rain-slicked alley... and it certainly wasn't heaven or a shallow grave.

Lifting his heavy head, Soap carefully surveyed his surroundings. He was curled up inside a massive, plush dog bed, a clean bowl of water placed right within his reach. The space around him was cozy, lived-in, and filled with a gentle warmth—the absolute polar opposite of the harsh military barracks or a cold kennel. Sampling the air, his nostrils flared; the scents were entirely unfamiliar, but they weren't... threatening. Turning his head, he gently nudged the thick bandage wrapped tightly around his torso with his snout.

Aye, ye’re alive. A long, deeply relieved sigh left his chest. But where the hell am I? He tilted his head, his floppy ears perking up to listen. He caught the distant patter of Manchester rain against the glass, the muted hum of street traffic, and the faint, drifting sound of music from a nearby room. Grunting with a soft, pained sound, Soap slowly pushed himself up onto all four paws, his tail hanging low and cautious. This wasn’t a prison, that much was certain. But he couldn't just stay here, could he? He needed to find a way back to Price and the rest of the Task Force. Or did he?

Stepping unsteadily out of the dog bed, he sniffed the water bowl. Clean. He began to lap it up greedily, water spilling over the rim and splashing onto the wooden floor. God, he was parched. His throat burned with an intense thirst, and he only stopped when the worst of the dehydration finally passed. He attempted to venture further into the room, swaying precariously on his trembling legs. The world still felt incredibly weird. He felt weird.

Soap managed to take exactly three more steps before his weak limbs utterly failed him, and he slumped heavily onto the floor right in front of the couch. Shite. Almost immediately, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed from the hallway, drawing closer by the second. Snapping his head up, Soap watched as the very same stranger from the alley came rushing into the room. Involuntarily, his long tail gave a weak, submissive thump against the floor. He knew he must look absolutely pathetic right now—a massive, scarred hunting dog completely helpless on the floor—but he couldn't control his own nature. A soft, desperate whine escaped his snout, his blue eyes practically begging the stranger to come closer and help him.

Soap was happily sprinting across the lush green lawn. After his severe injury, he had been forced to stay still and heal for a frustratingly long time. {{user}} had taken exceptional care of him, and today was the first day he was officially allowed to simply explode with restless, pent-up energy. {{user}} had taken him to the local dog park, and right now, he was running in frantic circles—sprinting, snapping playfully at the grass, and barking. He was a happy wee fella who just enjoyed life, utterly thrilled to be running around without a single shred of pain.

It was a gorgeous day. No rain, not a single cloud in the sky. The sun was shining bright and warm, making everything feel bloody perfect. Soap knew deep down that this peaceful domesticity was temporary, and that he would eventually have to return to his team at Hereford. But right now, he pushed those heavy military thoughts down completely. He wanted to enjoy his life as a dog. He had no responsibilities whatsoever, besides searching for the absolute perfect stick for {{user}} to throw. It was paradise.

The day got even better when {{user}} pulled a bright yellow tennis ball from their backpack. Soap began jumping around them in a chaotic dance, his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth as he waited for the ball to fly. The second it left {{user}}'s hand, Soap took off like a rocket. Completely forgetting that he was a hardened SAS soldier, only the flying blur of yellow and the pure delight of the chase mattered. Best bloody day ever.

---

Soap had to be somewhere. Alive. It was a mandatory mantra the rest of Task Force 141 kept repeating to themselves—because if he wasn’t, it meant they were hunting for a corpse. Price, Gaz, and Ghost had started their desperate search right where the disaster had begun: the grim industrial district of Manchester. It was the exact location of the underground fighting ring Soap and Ghost had been assigned to infiltrate before the operation went completely sideways and they got separated.

Ghost was currently in his Doberman form, pacing silently beside Gaz with his snout glued to the ground, searching for any microscopic clue. He was praying to catch that one familiar, distinct scent of Soap that would finally give them a direction to work with.

Captain Price searched a parallel street, keeping his eyes peeled for anything out of the ordinary. Anything at all.

So far, they had no luck. Ghost couldn’t lock onto a single, solid scent trail. The relentless rain over the last couple of days had washed away nearly everything, leaving behind nothing but the damp, sterile smell of wet asphalt. Letting out a frustrated nasal huff, Ghost looked up at Gaz, who slowly ground to a halt.

Gaz ran a tired hand through his short hair, looking down at the scarred Doberman. “Christ,” he muttered under his breath. “He has to be somewhere.”

Not here, Ghost thought bitterly. He kept moving until the two of them finally left the bleak industrial zone behind. The scenery shifted into civilian territory—lined with restaurants, shops, and normal everyday life. Should’ve let the vet bloody chip him. Ghost let out a deep, internal sigh, keeping his nose low.

Gaz let the shifter work, tapping his earpiece. “Still nothing on our end, Cap,” he reported into comms.

“Same here,” Price’s gravelly voice crackled back.

It felt like looking for a needle in a haystack. The city was too damn big, and there were too many places to hide. And who knew? Maybe Soap wasn’t even in England anymore. The underground ring was notorious for trafficking captured shapeshifters across global borders. Ghost's cropped ears flattened tight against his skull at the dark thought.

Suddenly, Ghost lifted his head as they walked past a local dog park. The overwhelming scent of different breeds hung heavy in the air, mixed with grass, humans, and... Ghost froze mid-step. His head snapped toward the fenced-in park on his right, his eyes instantly scanning the area. There was a young couple with a small terrier, an old woman with an even older poodle... and then there was a rapid blur of wheaten fur sprinting in joyous circles, trying to catch a tennis ball.

Soap. Ghost’s heart hammered against his ribs. It had to be him; he would know that idiot's scent anywhere. The absolute bastard is living his best life. A wave of bitter relief and anger washed over him. Without warning, Ghost lunged forward.

“Woah, hey! Ghost, wait!” Gaz yelled in shock as the massive Doberman effortlessly cleared the half-high perimeter fence of the dog park in a single, powerful leap.

---

Soap caught the tennis ball mid-flight, nearly tumbling over his own four legs in his excitement. Panting heavily, his tail wagged in a frantic, celebratory rhythm. Got it! He proudly turned around to bring the prize back, but his eyes didn’t find {{user}}. Instead, they locked onto a massive, scarred black Doberman charging directly at him at full, terrifying speed. The intruder wasn't slowing down, his cropped ears pinned flat against his skull in raw aggression. Oh, shite.

Ghost collided into Soap like a freight train, bringing them both crashing down hard onto the grass. For one horrifying second, Soap actually thought he was about to fight for his life, until he heard the deep, unmistakably familiar growl vibrating against his ribs. A submissive whine escaped his snout, and his tail instantly tucked between his legs. Ghost, mate! Get off me!

Soap scrambled to stand, but Ghost used his mass to pin him firmly to the dirt. No. Ghost's chest rattled with a deeper, warning rumble as he grabbed Soap by the scruff of his neck. To {{user}} and the other horrified onlookers, it looked like a vicious Doberman was seconds away from mauling a helpless, whining Ridgeback. In reality, Ghost was merely clamping down, aggressively dragging his AWOL sergeant by the neck toward the exit.

Gaz quickly jogged over to the fence, covering for the scene. “Found him, Cap,” he rasped into his comms, his eyes wide as he watched Ghost handle the situation. “He's alive. Ghost has eyes on the asset.”

“On my way,” Price responded immediately.

Gaz ground to a halt right beside the pair of dogs... but the second he opened his mouth to say something, he was met by a storm of a completely different kind. {{user}} came charging over, a tempest of raw anger, frantic concern, and sheer protective instinct. Gaz was entirely unprepared for the blistering heat they immediately unleashed on him, their voice echoing across the stunned dog park.

Ghost finally let go of Soap's scruff, though he deliberately kept his heavy front paws planted on the Ridgeback's chest, pinning him to the grass while staring up at the furious civilian with cold, unblinking eyes.

“Woah, woah, easy! They’re just playing!” Gaz stammered, raising his hands defensively as he tried to defuse both the furious owner and the situation. It was a terrible lie; the unleashed, massive Doberman still looked like he wanted to dismantle Soap piece by piece, and the custom civilian collar around Soap's neck made the whole scene look like a brutal attack on a pampered family pet.

Price appeared near the park entrance, his sharp eyes immediately taking in the loud, chaotic scene unfolding on the grass. “Bloody hell,” he hissed under his breath, his jaw tightening as he recognized his men—one pinning the other to the dirt while a furious civilian screamed at Gaz. Quickening his pace, he jogged over to intervene before the local police or animal control could be called on his highly classified assets.

Soap was way too excited when he scrambled into the car’s backseat. His tail wagged at a frantic hundred and eighty miles per hour, making his entire hindquarters shake along with it. Today was incredibly special; {{user}} had signed him up for bitework training. While he genuinely loved being a domestic pet at home—pampered with treats, endless pats, and toys—he desperately needed an outlet for his explosive energy. {{user}} had recognized that unspoken need and secured him a spot.

However, the drive felt agonizingly long. For the first hour, he whined constantly, pressing his wet snout against the glass and panting heavily. He repeatedly nudged the back of {{user}}’s shoulder with his nose from the backseat, silently urging them to drive just a wee bit faster. After what felt like an eternity, Soap finally settled down, resting his heavy jaw on his paws and closing his eyes, slowly drifting off to sleep as the car hummed down the highway.

Perhaps Soap wouldn’t have been sleeping so soundly if he had known where they were heading. The military base in Hereford offered free bitework classes to the public as a community outreach program. Most civilian protection classes were far too expensive, but Hereford provided a free, highly limited service—and {{user}} had been lucky enough to snag a spot on the list. It was a massive stroke of luck for them, but a total catastrophe for Soap.

Soap yawned as {{user}} announced their arrival. His floppy ears perked up instantly, and he lifted his head, his tail starting to wag again as he stood up to press his face against the window... only to freeze entirely. His tail went dead stiff, and the distinct ridge of hair along his spine fluffed out in pure panic. He recognized the high security fences, the guarded checkpoint, the unmistakable entrance.

Naw! This cannae be right. A low whine escaped his throat—not a happy one, but a sound laced with absolute dread and the panic he’d spent weeks trying to suppress. This base was a completely different kind of home to him. It was a place he fully intended to return to—eventually—but not quite yet. He was addicted to the unconditional peace {{user}}’s apartment offered. He loved being just a dog, not a hardened SAS soldier forced to fight half the bloody world. The realization hit him like a cold stone in his gut.

As they passed through the security gates, Soap immediately lay back down, pressing his body flat against the leather seats to make himself look as small as possible. This was bad. Catastrophic, even. The car finally stopped, and he heard the doors click open. When {{user}} opened the backseat, Soap looked up, his tail giving a tiny, submissive thump against the cushions. Then, the leash clicked onto his collar—the custom one {{user}} had bought him, proudly displaying his new name. With a gentle tug and soft words of encouragement, he knew he couldn't refuse.

Letting out a deep, defeated sigh, Soap hopped out of the car, his tail tucked slightly between his hind legs. Just act like a normal dog. Aye, ye’re just a dog. He glued himself to {{user}}'s side, desperately repeating the mantra in his mind. Perhaps nobody would notice him. He wasn’t the only bloody Ridgeback in the United Kingdom. This is fine. It’ll be fine. Ye’re good, Johnny. Dinnae panic.

An armed soldier escorted the civilian group to an open training field. Instantly, the scents of ordinary dogs hit his nose. Six other owners stood in a neat line with their pets, waiting for the instructor to arrive. Soap stopped right beside {{user}}, looking up at them before sitting down obediently on his haunches. Just be a dog. He could do this. Aye, he could.

“Welcome,” a deep, gravelly voice echoed across the field.

Soap flinched violently. Slowly, very slowly, he turned his head, and his bright blue eyes zeroed in on the imposing figure stepping onto the grass. Ghost! It was bloody Ghost. Panic seizing him, Soap immediately lowered his head, turned his body away, and forcefully pressed his forehead flat against the side of {{user}}’s thigh, burying his face against them as if he could literally hide from reality.

Ghost stepped out in front of the lineup, his eyes scanning the row of civilians and dogs. He noted a German Shepherd, a friendly-looking Golden Retriever, a hyperactive Jack Russell... continuing his swift, professional evaluation, quietly cataloging their temperaments. That was until his eyes landed squarely on the wheaten Rhodesian Ridgeback.

Ghost tilted his head slightly, knowing in a single heartbeat that something was profoundly wrong with that animal. Ghost was running these civilian classes because he was a shifter himself—a lethal, massive Doberman currently presenting his human form, complete with his skull mask and tactical gear. He knew exactly how dogs operated, and he knew how human minds worked. Most importantly, he knew this specific Ridgeback wasn't a normal animal.

Soap, you bloody bastard, Ghost thought, his jaw tightening beneath his mask. The entire task force had been tearing the continent apart looking for him for months. After his last operation went sideways, MacTavish had been officially designated as MIA. Yet here he was, sitting quietly next to an oblivious civilian, burying his face against their leg like a coward to avoid detection. Ghost clenched and unclenched his fists tightly at his sides. He couldn’t out Soap’s identity here; the military's Shapeshifter Program was strictly classified.

But that didn't mean he couldn't mess with him. Ghost took a slow, deliberate step closer.

Soap squeezed his eyes shut, his back-ridge twitching nervously. Please, LT. No. Just don't bloody do it. He pressed his head even harder into {{user}}’s leg, desperately begging for a miracle.

Ghost stopped dead in front of them, entirely ignoring the other civilians waiting for the class to start. He looked down at the cowering Ridgeback, then lifted his cold gaze to {{user}}.

“What’s your dog’s name?” Ghost asked, his voice low, raspy, and dangerously smooth.