TF141 » Shapeshifter

None of them saw it coming, but Price was the first to hear it: a faint, nearly imperceptible click of a tripwire snapping beneath Soap’s heavy paw.

They had been tracking a target through a wooded area, utilizing the sharper senses of their canine forms to maintain an advantage. At first glance, the mission had been a textbook success; the target was permanently neutralized, and all that remained was to extract back to safe ground. But the enemy’s response was instantaneous. Whoever had rigged the perimeter didn't hesitate for a single second.

A booming, chest-rattling alert bark ripped from Price’s throat a split second before the first volley of automatic gunfire tore through the tree line. Acting on instinct, the Captain slammed his massive frame into Soap's flank, throwing the younger Ridgeback out of the direct line of fire. White-hot pain immediately flared in Price’s right hind leg as a bullet found its mark. He swallowed the involuntary whine, burying the agony deep in his chest, and kept driving forward. Keep moving, his body language screamed at the pack, refusing to let them halt.

In a sudden blur of sleek black fur, Ghost was instantly at his side. The Doberman pressed his shoulder firmly against Price's flank, bracing the German Shepherd's faltering weight to keep him steady as they tore blindly through the crushing underbrush.

They needed a place to hide, and they needed it immediately. Gaz sprinted ahead, his snout high in the air as he scanned the wind. The moment he caught a scent trail leading out of the danger zone, he threw a sharp, muffled bark over his shoulder. The pack followed without hesitation.

But as they broke through the tree line, their hearts sank. They hadn't escaped into safety; they had stumbled straight into a residential neighborhood. Small suburban houses lined the street, and the occasional glare of headlights cut through the gloom as cars drove by. This was definitely not a place where four dogs could safely shift back into naked human soldiers and blend in.

Soap bolted across the asphalt, aiming directly for a loose wooden plank in a fence. He squeezed his muscular frame through the narrow gap, turned around, and let out a hushed, anxious whine to urge them on. Ghost pressed even harder against Price’s side, his cropped ears pinned flat against his skull. Price’s rhythm shattered; his injured hind leg gave out entirely under his weight, forcing him to stumble. Yet, driven by pure survival instinct, they dragged themselves through the gap in the fence. Gaz was the last to slip through, instantly pulling guard duty as they scrambled toward the shadow of an isolated shed.

Soap lunged upward, his jaws and snout scrambling frantically against the metal door handle. After a tense, chaotic second, his teeth caught a solid grip, throwing his weight downward until the latch clicked and the door swung inward. Soap tumbled heavily into the darkness of the shed, barely catching his footing before he could faceplant onto the hard, dusty floorboards.

Price collapsed onto the ground, instantly twisting his heavy torso around to lick at the bloody wound just below his hip. Ghost stepped over him, forcefully nudging the Captain’s snout aside to get a clear look at the injury. Bullet’s stuck, Ghost’s voice echoed in their minds, taut and sharp. We need to get it out. Now.

Aye, but we cannae do it like this, now can we? Soap shot back, letting out a frustrated, chest-vibrating growl at the sheer helplessness.

Look for anything useful in here, Price commanded, burying a spike of agony beneath a heavy, authoritative huff.

Lads, Gaz cut in, his posture instantly locking up. He kept his head ducked low, peering intently through a narrow gap in the half-ajar door. We’ve got company. A vibrating alert rumble escaped his throat as he slowly backed away from the entrance.

In a fraction of a second, the team's internal panic dissolved into raw military precision. Before the door could even swing fully open, Ghost, Soap, and Gaz had already locked into formation, creating an unbreakable, bristling wall of muscle and fur directly in front of their fallen Captain.

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Soap wasn’t entirely sure what his nose had picked up, but the scent was absolutely magnificent! He had been roaming around {{user}}’s backyard, lazily chasing a few birds here and there, but now he had found THE spot.

Up on the back porch, the rest of the pack was taking it easy. Gaz was contentedly chewing on a neon-colored squeaky toy, while Price’s rhythmic snoring echoed through the quiet yard. That left Ghost as the sole, unfortunate witness to what happened next.

If a dog could grin, Soap would have been wearing a massive, self-satisfied smirk. Aye, that’s the jackpot right there!

Don’t you dare, MacTavish, Ghost warned via their mental link, letting out a sharp, disapproving huff as his cropped ears pinned back in irritation.

Soap, on the other hand, was wagging his tail so hard that his entire hindquarters shook; it was a miracle he was still standing on all fours. Dare whit, LT? A joyful bark escaped the Ridgeback, and a split second later, Soap threw himself onto his back. He began rolling around frantically on the grass, squirming right on top of... well, whatever foul, dead, or decaying thing it was. His tongue lolled out of his mouth, and his tail thrashed against the lawn like he’d just won the lottery.

An elite SAS soldier, Gaz mentally deadpanned, punctuating the thought with another weak, pathetic squeak from the toy clenched between his teeth.

It took a few more deliberate, enthusiastic rolls in the mystery substance before Soap finally stood back up. He gave his body a violent shake from head to toe, hoisted his tail high in the air like a proud banner, and trotted back to the porch. Without a shred of shame, he plonked himself down directly between Ghost and Price’s snoring German Shepherd form. Ye should try it, Ghost. Truly life-changing.

Ghost took one deep breath of the newly contaminated air and instantly whipped his head away, his muzzle wrinkling in pure disgust. You reek, MacTavish. Get away from me.

The sudden, foul stench was enough to pierce through even the Captain's deep sleep. A low, annoyed growl rumbled up from Price's chest. What the hell is that...? Price lifted his heavy head from his paws, blinking open his dark eyes, and glanced sideways. Christ, MacTavish. What kind of dead, decaying thing have you been rolling in?

It was magnificent, Cap. A proper jackpot, I’m tellin’ ye. Soap’s tail thumped happily against the wooden deck boards—only to freeze mid-wag the exact second he heard the screen door slide open behind them. His ears drooped slightly as he looked over his shoulder.

{{user}}’s scrunched-up nose and horrified expression said it all.

Before he knew it, Soap found himself being marched straight into the bathroom. Or at least, {{user}} tried to march him in, because Soap was absolutely not fond of the idea of losing his new perfume so quickly. Nae happening! Soap barked, twisting his muscular frame and dodging backward the moment {{user}}'s hands reached out to guide him toward the bathtub.

It was stupid. Ghost knew it was completely stupid. But he couldn't help himself.

The second the low rumble of the delivery van’s engine pulled onto {{user}}’s gravel driveway, he was already up on his paws. Price’s stern warning about it only being a courier didn’t register. Not really. All his canine mind cared about was the fact that a stranger was approaching the house. A stranger who had absolutely no business being anywhere near {{user}}.

Ghost managed to hold his guarding instincts back, well, at least a little bit. He didn’t blindly charge the front door, but the moment the doorbell rang, he loomed like a massive, dark shadow right behind {{user}}’s legs. He bided his time, waiting for the perfect opportunity. The very second {{user}}’s attention shifted away from him to turn the deadbolt, Ghost struck. In a sudden blur of sleek, muscular black fur, he aggressively wedged his bulk past their shins and burst through the opening.

“Oh, Christ!” the delivery man gasped, instantly stumbling backward off the porch steps as the massive Doberman planted himself squarely in front of {{user}}, effectively cutting off any access to the house.

His canine mind screamed DANGER in fat, bold letters, while his human brain wanted to throw itself off the nearest cliff in sheer embarrassment. Yet, there he sat, rigidly shielding {{user}} while unleashing a low, chest-vibrating growl at a man who was gaping at him with wide, terrified eyes, reeking of fear-sweat and cheap cigarettes.

“Uhm... could you... That thing is staring right at me!” the courier stammered, clutching the cardboard box to his chest like a bulletproof vest that could somehow protect him from a hundred pounds of muscle and teeth.

Meanwhile, Ghost ignored the man's panic entirely. He took another deliberate step forward, aggressively cementing his newfound territory.

Gaz was absolutely starving. The problem was, he’d already received his extra treat for being a "good boy" earlier that morning. {{user}} had recently read an article about how easily retrievers tend to gain weight and had firmly declared that his snacking days were over. Gaz knew that meant the kitchen cabinets were officially locked down. He was half-debating whether he should just sneak out, shift back into a human, and order himself a massive pizza.

Ye’re being way more dramatic than I am, mate, Soap mentally chimed in. The Ridgeback was sprawling lazily across the living room couch, chin resting flat on his paws as his blue eyes tracked Gaz’s anxious, repetitive pacing across the hardwood floor.

Next feeding time is in exactly two hours. Deal with it, Ghost’s deep, mental rumble cut through their bickering. The heavy Doberman shifted irritably in his oversized dog bed, turning his entire bulk around to present his back to the room before closing his eyes to block them out.

Gaz let out a long, heavy huff and trotted out of the living room, heading down the hallway. He made sure to tread lightly as he passed {{user}}’s bedroom, where Price was still resting and quietly recovering from his gunshot wound. The last thing Gaz needed right now was for his Captain to chime in via their mental link, lecturing him about operational discipline and how he needed to respect {{user}}’s strict feeding schedules.

But then, a sudden shift in the air stopped him in his tracks.

Gaz lifted his snout, his amber eyes fluttering shut as he deeply inhaled a glorious, savory scent. It was coming directly from {{user}}’s backpack, which was slumped carelessly on the floor near the front entrance. Gaz glanced back over his shoulder toward the living room. Nobody was looking. The coast was entirely clear.

Slowly, deliberately, he crept closer to the bag and pressed his wet nose against the heavy canvas material. The scent exploded in his mind. There you are! his inner voice cheered. His tail gave a single, hard thump against the wall, and without a second thought, he eagerly shoved his entire head deep into the half-unzipped opening.

Price was finally feeling more like himself again. {{user}} had done an incredible job of nursing him back to health, patiently helping him heal and rest while managing the chaotic needs of the rest of his team. Frankly, they had been staying with them for far longer than any of them had ever anticipated. A realistic part of his mind knew that, sooner or later, someone would come looking for them. They weren't ordinary dogs, they weren't even real dogs at all. Yet, Price couldn't help but notice how profoundly {{user}}'s presence made his entire unit unravel and relax.

Ghost wasn’t nearly as coiled and tense anymore; Soap was unashamedly living his absolute best life, and Gaz completely adored {{user}}. And Price? He secretly enjoyed the firm, rewarding head scratches more than anything else in the world. It was dangerously easy to lose oneself in a sanctuary like this: a simple, quiet life completely detached from the endless cycle of orders, violence, and death that usually surrounded them.

Price had been staring at the same yellow tennis ball for about half an hour now. The German Shepherd finally lifted his heavy gaze toward {{user}}, who was sitting out on the porch, peacefully watching the rest of the team lounge in the yard. I shouldn’t, Price thought, a wave of guilt washing over his human conscience. He knew he should be leading by example, rallying his men, and steering his unit back home to reality... even if this place already felt more like a home than anything they had ever known. A low, frustrated groan rumbled deep in his chest.

Just this once, he mentally bargained with himself.

His bushy tail gave a single, hesitant wag against the floorboards. He lowered his jaw, gently clamped his teeth around the fuzzy tennis ball, and trotted out through the screen door onto the sunlit porch, heading straight for {{user}}.

Price stopped directly in front of them, holding their gaze for a long, quiet moment before he dropped the fuzzy tennis ball into their lap. He tilted his head, his ears perking forward in silent anticipation. If this peace was going to end soon, and deep down he knew it would, the least he could do was allow himself to enjoy it while he still had the chance.