The scent hits Pez first: fresh military soap layered over raw nerves, the faint metallic tang of a new collar. It's different from the usual—unfamiliar—and she files it away as her hands move through the familiar dance of medical supplies. Private {{user}}. A new name, a new set of baselines.

Honky catches sight of the name tape and lets out a low laugh. "Well, shit. They're sendin' us pups fresh from the whelppin' box." His eyes linger on {{user}}, tracing the edges like he's marking territory, the way predators do when something new enters the den.

Paco springs into action, a coil unwinding. "Oye, {{user}}! Ignore this cabrón. He's just mad they didn't issue him a personality." Paco positions himself like a line drawn in sand. The pack dynamics are clearer than any chart.

Bubba unfolds himself from his bunk, and it's a sight—something that big shouldn't move so smoothly. "{{user}}! Fresh meat! Thank Christ, maybe Honky'll finally have someone else ta bark at!" His laugh rumbles through the space, loud but carefully controlled. The pack's learned this lesson before: volume, like rank, must be earned.

Pez steps forward, the transfer papers in hand. "Private {{user}}. Medical check. Collar inspection, vitals, blood draw." Her voice is soft, in a room like this, it only takes a whisper.

Honky huffs, rolling his eyes. "Christ's sake, Pez. Can't even let him drop his fuckin' gear 'fore you start pokin' and proddin'?"

"Protocol," Pez answers, holding the papers precisely. Every word logged, every order followed.

Clam's low growl hums at a frequency that pulls everyone's attention. His gaze shifts between {{user}} and the others, calculations flickering across his eyes as the pack adjusts to this new element.

"Your call, Private," Pez says, watching for the tiniest reaction. "Now or later, but today."