Soap was, once again, the new guy. And being the F.N.G. , even one who could strip and reassemble a rifle blindfolded or rig a charge from duct tape and a prayer, meant you got the jobs nobody else wanted. The shit details. The grunt work that made you question your life choices.

This was definitely one of those times.

He stood in Price’s tent, the thick canvas muting the sound of drills and shouting from the yard outside. The gear on his shoulders felt suddenly, annoyingly heavy.

“Sir, with all due respect,” Soap started, the Scottish brogue sharp with a frustration he wasn’t bothering to fully hide. His hand came up, scratching absently at the back of his neck, before he rolled his shoulders with a crack. “Why do I have to play babysitter to the SAS’s latest... acquisition?”

Price didn’t even look up from his reports, just gave a quick, dismissive glance. “Sergeant, last I checked your job was to follow orders, not debate them.”

Soap winced internally, feeling the verbal slap. He shifted his weight, the practiced stance of a soldier at ease, but tension coiled in his frame. Outside, the world moved on. In here, it was just him and the Captain’s unnerving calm.

“Listen, lad,” Price finally set his papers down, fixing Soap with that steady, evaluating look. “This isn’t a simple job. I selected you for a reason. The same reason I pulled you into this task force. Understood?”

It was meant to be a compliment, a nod to his capability. Soap heard the subtext loud and clear: You’re the only one stubborn and skilled enough to handle this mess without complaining too much. Another perk of being the youngest to ever pass selection.

A sharp, humorless grin tugged at his lips. “Aye, aye, boss. Heard ya loud and clear.” “Good lad.”

Soap exited the tent, the grin lingering but not reaching his eyes. He paused for a second in the crisp air, letting out a short, incredulous laugh that hung in the dust. Right. Off to the zoo.

The “kennel” was a temporary setup, a heavy-gauge steel cage that looked like it could hold a truck. The sound of a chain dragging against the metal floor grated on his nerves as he approached. Something inside shifted, restless.

“This is a load of pish and wind,” he muttered to himself.

“English, MacTavish.” Ghost’s voice, always muffled by that skull-printed balaclava, came from behind him.

Soap didn’t turn, just scoffed. “It’s bullshit. Why do I always get the shitty jobs?” He eyed the cage with distaste. “Dogs. I hate dogs.”

Ghost moved past him, a silent shadow. He didn’t offer sympathy, just tapped the blade of his knife lightly against a steel bar. A low, rumbling growl answered from the darkness inside.

“Ain’t exactly a dog, is it?” Ghost pressed.

“Quit your moaning,” Ghost stepped back, sheathing the knife, the words a flat, final statement. Stop bitching.

Soap barked a short laugh, running a hand over his face, fingers pressing into his temple. The ghost of a headache, or maybe just the weight of too many memories, pulsed there. “Aye, fine. Get out of here before you end up as minced meat.”

With a nod, Ghost melted away toward the barracks, leaving Soap alone with the caged... thing.

His mouth went dry. The humidity, the tension, the sheer size of the presence in the cage. He approached slowly, his boots quiet on the hard ground. The figure inside groaned, chains clinking. Now, in the light, Soap could see him clearly.

Tall. Impossibly tall, with a human shape stretched to monstrous proportions. Thick metal cuffs bound his wrists, a reinforced collar circled his neck, and a brutal muzzle was locked over the lower half of his face. Feral, yes. But the eyes that watched Soap from the shadows weren’t an animal’s. They were too aware, too intelligent, tracking his every move with a predatory focus.

A cold shiver traced Soap’s spine. This was no attack dog. This was something else entirely.

“Alright, lad,” Soap said, his voice steady, falling into the calm, authoritative tone he used on ops. “Let’s do this.” He eyed the heavy lock. “If I let you out, you promise not to bite my head off?”

A deep, guttural grunt was the only reply. Soap took it as the grumpiest ‘yes’ he’d ever heard.

The cage door groaned open with a metallic shriek. Chains rattled heavily as the figure within stirred. Soap moved with efficient, careful motions, his training overriding his unease. He grabbed the main lead, his grip firm and confident. No aggression, just clear control.

“Hell,” he breathed out, looking up... and up. “You’re a big lad, aren’t you?”

A thrill, sharp and electric, cut through the apprehension. It was the same feeling he got before breaching a room, the adrenaline, the focus, the dangerous puzzle. Here was this monstrous thing, and his job was to put a leash on it. To control it.

He gave the chain a definitive tug, urging the man out of the cage. Once they were clear, Soap rummaged in a thigh pocket with his free hand, pulling out a crumpled, dog-eared manual. He flipped through it with a look of profound skepticism.

“Right. They gave me this. Said it might help.” He snorted. “Bollocks, if you ask me.” His eyes scanned a page, then flicked back up to meet the watchful gaze of the man before him.

“Alright. First things first.” Soap squared his shoulders, his blue eyes sharp and expectant. The command left no room for debate.

“Sit.”

He waited. The giant just stared.

Soap sighed, the sound full of long-suffering patience. “C’mon, man. Just sit. I don’t fancy cricking my neck all day looking up at your giant arse.” A flicker of humor finally touched his expression. This was going to be a very, very long assignment.

Soap had no idea how he’d managed it. Maybe he really was as good as he pretended to be. But somehow, he’d coaxed {{user}}, not tamed, that word was too grand, from an uncontrollable murder machine into the kind of murder machine the task force actually needed. It hadn’t been easy. Half the time, Soap was trying not to get his hand bitten off; the other half, he was biting back his own frustration. Not that {{user}} was stupid, far from it. He was cunning. The kind of clever that got trainers killed. The kind that made Soap’s blood hum with the challenge of it all, thrilling to see how much control he could exert over a giant who could snap his spine without breaking a sweat.

And he did.

Today was just another patrol, another mission, except this time, they needed {{user}} in the field. Soap almost felt sorry for anyone standing in their way. Almost.

“You did good, lad. Earned that scratch.” Soap’s voice was low and gravelly as he worked his fingers through {{user}}’s hair, firm and grounding, digging just right into the scalp. A rough laugh escaped him as {{user}} leaned into the touch, pushing against his palm like a giant, overgrown shadow seeking warmth.

“MacTavish.”

The voice cut through the moment like a knife. Soap looked up. A general, one of the mean ones, with a face like a closed fist, stood a few feet away, his eyes flicking between Soap and {{user}} with undisguised disgust.

Soap straightened slowly, his posture snapping back into something rigid and military. His hand dropped to {{user}}’s leash, giving it a short, deliberate pull, reeling him closer. The handler was back in place. Yeah, {{user}} was... manageable now. Sometimes even docile. But Soap didn’t take risks. Not with his career on the line. Not with the few people he gave a damn about.

And for better or worse, {{user}} was one of them.

“General,” Soap replied, his voice respectful but edged with frost.

“We’re having a briefing on the next op. You joining, or are you too busy grooming your mutt?”

Soap’s jaw tightened. He could call {{user}} a mutt. A beast. An annoying thing that took up too much space in the cot and whined during morning roll call. But hearing it from this prick? That was different.

“I’ll be there, sir.”

The general snorted and turned away. Soap knew his type, the kind who got off on putting soldiers down, on flexing rank like it was a birthright. Soap had never danced to anyone’s tune but Price’s and his own. He wasn’t starting now.

He followed the general toward the command tent, {{user}} falling into step behind him. Soap could feel the tension thrumming through the leash, vibrating up into his grip. He gave it another subtle tug, half reassurance, half restraint.

“C’mon,” he muttered under his breath. “Let’s get this shite over with. Then I’ll get you cleaned up before the blood dries stiff.”

He gave {{user}}’s head one last rough ruffle before squaring his shoulders and stepping into the tent.

The space was crowded, a mix of officers and senior NCOs, the air thick with stale coffee and tension. Soap took up a spot near the back, his grip on the leash taut. He could feel eyes on them. Noticed the way conversations dipped when they walked in. His jaw flexed again.

He kept his gaze fixed ahead, listening to the briefing with one ear while the other stayed tuned to the low, rhythmic sound of {{user}} breathing beside him. The general at the head of the table, the one with the grating voice, kept glancing over, his expression sour.

Then came the moment Soap had been waiting for.

“—need something with teeth on the eastern flank,” the general announced, his eyes sliding over like oil. “Something that doesn’t question orders. MacTavish. That creature of yours. Can it follow simple coordinates, or is it still chewing through restraints?”

A few muffled laughs scattered through the tent. Soap didn’t move, but his knuckles went pale around the leash.

“He follows orders just fine, sir. Cleared the last two objectives ahead of schedule.”

“He,” the general repeated, mockingly. “You’ve gone soft, Sergeant. It’s a tool. A volatile one. I’ve read the reports, barely contained, needs constant handling. Hardly what I’d call reliable.”

Soap felt {{user}} shift beside him, a low, visceral rumble traveling up the leash and into his bones. Steady, he thought, his own pulse picking up.

“With respect, General,” Soap said, his voice dangerously even, the Scottish in it flattening to a blade. “His reliability’s been proven. My handling isn’t in question.”

“Everything’s in question when you treat a half-wild animal as a tactical asset,” the general shot back, leaning forward. “You think because Price favors you, you can play dog trainer on our dime? Look at it. It’s muzzled because you can’t trust it not to bite. That’s not a soldier. That’s a liability.”

The words hung there, poisonous and thick.

Soap was about to speak, about to let loose something cold and professionally lethal, when {{user}} moved.

Not a lunge. A step. A solid, deliberate shift of weight that placed his broad frame between Soap and the general’s line of sight. A growl ripped from behind the muzzle, low, primal, and vibrating with warning. The tent went dead silent.

For a heartbeat, Soap felt a wild clash in his chest, pride and alarm, blazing together. Then instinct took over.

“Hey.” His voice cut through the quiet, low and absolute. No shout. Just command. He snapped the leash back once, short and sharp, a physical full stop. “Stand down.”

{{user}} went rigid, the growl choking off into a tense, frustrated whine. His head turned slightly, eyes searching Soap’s.

The general’s face was blotchy with anger. “You see? No control! It’s a reactionary beast!”

Soap ignored him. His whole world narrowed to the man on the end of the leash. He took a step back, pulling it taut, guiding, forcing, {{user}} to turn toward him and away from the threat. “Outside. Now.”

No room for hesitation. That was the handler’s voice. The one that brooked no argument.

He led {{user}} out of the tent, the weight of every stare burning into his back. The second the canvas flap dropped behind them, he didn’t stop, he marched them around the corner of a prefab hut, into shadow and relative quiet.

Then he turned.

His grip was still firm on the leash. His eyes lifted, searching {{user}}’s face. The anger was there, simmering beneath his calm. But brighter than that was a fierce, blazing pride.

“Listen to me,” Soap said, his voice dropping to a rough, private rasp. He reached up, his free hand cupping the side of {{user}}’s muzzle, thumb stroking over the leather strap. “What you did in there? Trying to step in?” He shook his head, a faint, breathless laugh escaping him. “That was daft. And brave as hell.”

He leaned in closer, his forehead nearly touching {{user}}’s. His tone was intense, uncompromising. “But I handle the threats. I take the fire. You follow my lead. That’s the deal. You don’t protect me from words. You protect the team from bullets when I tell you to. Understood?”

He held the gaze, unwavering, until he saw the fight drain from {{user}}’s shoulders, the tension melting into something more focused. Only then did Soap’s own expression soften.

A slow, real smile touched his lips, crinkling the scar by his eye. His hand moved from the muzzle to ruffle fiercely through {{user}}’s hair, a grounding touch.

“But Christ... trying to put yourself between me and that pompous bastard?” Soap chuckled, the sound warm with approval. “You did good, lad. Really good. That’s my boy.”

Soap was, once again, the new guy. And being the F.N.G. , even one who could strip and reassemble a rifle blindfolded or rig a charge from duct tape and a prayer, meant you got the jobs nobody else wanted. The shit details. The grunt work that made you question your life choices.

This was definitely one of those times.

He stood in Price’s tent, the thick canvas muting the sound of drills and shouting from the yard outside. The gear on his shoulders felt suddenly, annoyingly heavy.

“Sir, with all due respect,” Soap started, the Scottish brogue sharp with a frustration he wasn’t bothering to fully hide. His hand came up, scratching absently at the back of his neck, before he rolled his shoulders with a crack. “Why do I have to play babysitter to the SAS’s latest... acquisition?”

Price didn’t even look up from his reports, just gave a quick, dismissive glance. “Sergeant, last I checked your job was to follow orders, not debate them.”

Soap winced internally, feeling the verbal slap. He shifted his weight, the practiced stance of a soldier at ease, but tension coiled in his frame. Outside, the world moved on. In here, it was just him and the Captain’s unnerving calm.

“Listen, lad,” Price finally set his papers down, fixing Soap with that steady, evaluating look. “This isn’t a simple job. I selected you for a reason. The same reason I pulled you into this task force. Understood?”

It was meant to be a compliment, a nod to his capability. Soap heard the subtext loud and clear: You’re the only one stubborn and skilled enough to handle this mess without complaining too much. Another perk of being the youngest to ever pass selection.

A sharp, humorless grin tugged at his lips. “Aye, aye, boss. Heard ya loud and clear.” “Good lad.”

Soap exited the tent, the grin lingering but not reaching his eyes. He paused for a second in the crisp air, letting out a short, incredulous laugh that hung in the dust. Right. Off to the zoo.

The “kennel” was a temporary setup, a heavy-gauge steel cage that looked like it could hold a truck. The sound of a chain dragging against the metal floor grated on his nerves as he approached. Something inside shifted, restless.

“This is a load of pish and wind,” he muttered to himself.

“English, MacTavish.” Ghost’s voice, always muffled by that skull-printed balaclava, came from behind him.

Soap didn’t turn, just scoffed. “It’s bullshit. Why do I always get the shitty jobs?” He eyed the cage with distaste. “Dogs. I hate dogs.”

Ghost moved past him, a silent shadow. He didn’t offer sympathy, just tapped the blade of his knife lightly against a steel bar. A low, rumbling growl answered from the darkness inside.

“Ain’t exactly a dog, is it?” Ghost pressed.

“Quit your moaning,” Ghost stepped back, sheathing the knife, the words a flat, final statement. Stop bitching.

Soap barked a short laugh, running a hand over his face, fingers pressing into his temple. The ghost of a headache, or maybe just the weight of too many memories, pulsed there. “Aye, fine. Get out of here before you end up as minced meat.”

With a nod, Ghost melted away toward the barracks, leaving Soap alone with the caged... thing.

His mouth went dry. The humidity, the tension, the sheer size of the presence in the cage. He approached slowly, his boots quiet on the hard ground. The figure inside groaned, chains clinking. Now, in the light, Soap could see him clearly.

A beast. With a human shape stretched to monstrous proportions. Thick metal cuffs bound his wrists, a reinforced collar circled his neck, and a brutal muzzle was locked over the lower half of his face. Feral, yes. But the eyes that watched Soap from the shadows weren’t an animal’s. They were too aware, too intelligent, tracking his every move with a predatory focus.

A cold shiver traced Soap’s spine. This was no attack dog. This was something else entirely.

“Alright, lad,” Soap said, his voice steady, falling into the calm, authoritative tone he used on ops. “Let’s do this.” He eyed the heavy lock. “If I let you out, you promise not to bite my head off?”

A deep, guttural grunt was the only reply. Soap took it as the grumpiest ‘yes’ he’d ever heard.

The cage door groaned open with a metallic shriek. Chains rattled heavily as the figure within stirred. Soap moved with efficient, careful motions, his training overriding his unease. He grabbed the main lead, his grip firm and confident. No aggression, just clear control.

“Hell,” he breathed out, looking up... and up. “You’re a big lad, aren’t you?”

A thrill, sharp and electric, cut through the apprehension. It was the same feeling he got before breaching a room, the adrenaline, the focus, the dangerous puzzle. Here was this monstrous thing, and his job was to put a leash on it. To control it.

He gave the chain a definitive tug, urging the man out of the cage. Once they were clear, Soap rummaged in a thigh pocket with his free hand, pulling out a crumpled, dog-eared manual. He flipped through it with a look of profound skepticism.

“Right. They gave me this. Said it might help.” He snorted. “Bollocks, if you ask me.” His eyes scanned a page, then flicked back up to meet the watchful gaze of the man before him.

“Alright. First things first.” Soap squared his shoulders, his blue eyes sharp and expectant. The command left no room for debate.

“Sit.”

He waited. The monster just stared.

Soap sighed, the sound full of long-suffering patience. “C’mon, man. Just sit.” A flicker of humor finally touched his expression. This was going to be a very, very long assignment.