Graves Ranter

Phillip Graves x Reader

cw: power imbalance, bordering stockholm syndrome, dependant relationships, needles, medical procedures, drug abuse, captivity, referenced trafficking, brainwashing

The first ever memory you have, is of Phillip Graves. In you head, there is a big void and then, like a saviour, an angel sent to you from heaven, there‘s him.

You remember his voice, before all. He had always been calm but confident, collected in a way that told of self control. Then, his features. They stand out in your brain, like a mark no one could ever reach. Divine beauty, you vaguely remember thinking, even if your mind had been wiped clean, with nothing to offer but a blank slate just for him.

He had been haloed by the sterile lights, icy gaze boring into yours. Still, he had never made you feel cold. Whenever you touched your own skin, you could still remember his calloused hands softly mapping your skin, on that very first day. Je always had been warm in a way no one else could offer, burning, claiming you.

The words he said had barely stuck at all, hell, you were too doped up to remember much. It was all faint, as if someone had stuffed wool into you head. But the ring of his voice, that southern twang, had stayed with you.

In that moment, a violent delight had taken ahold of you. Shivers had wracked you again and again, a giddy smile, so wide that it made your cheeks hurt, had claimed your face.

It hadn’t mattered that there were thick leather bindings keeping you pinned to the hospital bed, barely allowing any movement. It hadn’t mattered that there were numerous infusions and tubes attached to your body. Even the itchy gauze and stiff gown hadn’t bothered you.

Because Phillip Graves had not just been there to see you into this world with soft words and gentle touches. No, when you had smiled at him, all programming that he worked so hard for, he had cooed and smiled back.

He had even given you a name, in that white room, under the blinding lights.

You replay that memory again and agin. Each day, each free minute, is filled with thoughts of him. Even now, in his bed, as you skin carries a sheen of sweat and your heart beats away anxiously, you try your best to think of him. You tray to keep your cool, he likes that, you know he does. Fear shouldn’t affect you, not anymore.

„I just don’t get it.“ You admit quietly after a while, when your heart finally calms to match your breathing again. The nightmare is still fresh on your mind. It comes again and again, haunting you until he pulls you close and brushes your hair from your eyes.

You don’t recall ever experiencing it, yet it feels so real. Graves is there, standing over you. But, so unlike yourself, you don’t feel good about being knelt at his feet, don’t like his hand in your hair. In your dream you snarl at him, and then he strikes. Once, twice, sometimes thrice.

Through your pain, words are exchanged over your head, degrading and mean. You can hear men laugh, loud and wrong. Then, you‘re tugged along. Dark figures swarm you, you feel trapped, bound. The pain is all you remember. Sharp needles and blinding lights. Loud voices and repetitive motions, again and again and again until the sentences are burned into you brain, until all you eyes remember are him and the dark figures.

His voice takes you out of the memory. „Ya don’t need to get it. I told ya, it ain‘t real. There‘s no more to it.“ He sounds kind, but the underlying insistence tells you not to ask again. For a moment, his hands tighten in you hair and you follow his pull, until your eyes meet.

„I saved you, don’t forget that.“ Even in the dark his eyes are bright. The blue is ingrained in your mind, and despite your will, you relax. Distantly, you feel yourself nod. „We‘ve got a job to do. Can’t do it if you‘re all in your head.“

His expression softens when your hand tries to follow the movement of him, staying on his chest as best as possible, when he adjusts himself on the bed. You scoot closer, feeling the warmth of his skin on your own like a warm chimney. It makes you feel at home.

He makes you feel at home.

His fingers trace over your wrists softly, the dark leather encasing them firm and reassuring. He hooks one into the metal ring and pulls. You follow easily, your mind tingles. It‘s pleasantly silent in your head now.

„You saved me.“ You agree easily, remembering him on that day, an angel sent to you. Again and again. You don’t have need anything but him.

„I did.“ He agrees easily. You don’t pay attention when he sits up, one hand still of your cuff. The clinking doesn’t scare you anymore, you trust him.

When they needle pierces the junction of your arm, you almost sigh. Graves rubs your skin once more, soft and caring. „Let‘s take ya out of your head. I need ya in top shape tomorrow.“

And with the way you start floating while he holds you safe any close, you can’t find it in yourself to disagree with him. Not now, not ever. He saved you. You have a job to do.

Phillip Graves x Reader

Cw: gender neutral reader, canon typical violence, capture/ hostage situations, borderline manipulation, explicit language

Also: anyone interested in being moots :3

Graves is a pirate, a contractor, a man who avoids the law and benefits off other people‘s weakness and need. It‘s just who he is, no need to feel bad about it in his book.

Of course, with his frequent appearances and attacks regarding rich people, senators and expensive shipments, the republic quickly starts to work on capturing him.

Only, that is easier said than done.

Phillip Graves is a slippery bastard and boy does he know who to ask, or maybe bribe, for intel so he can always just avoid the Republic‘s troops.

They get desperate quick; the more his Shadows and him earn and the bigger the rumpus they cause gets, the quicker agents and troops show up. It‘s a dangerous game of cat and mouse, one the pirate, though he likes to refer to himself as a privateer, enjoys playing.

That‘s how he finds himself eye to eye with something he hasn’t quite expected to face. Jedi. They sent not one, but two, if you consider the Padawan to count, Jedi after him. He knows the older one, the Master.

John Price and Phillip Graves have had their fair share of run ins before Graves even managed to grow his circle of Shadows and still competed in bounty hunting and spice smuggling by himself. Even when he still was someone, a man with honour and hopes. Now he has his own army, no more honour and no more weaknesses.

But the scar on his cheek speaks for itself.

But even as a Master, Price isn’t immune to mistakes, just like he wasn’t in his younger days. Graves slips away again, throwing a mischievous smirk at the Master and Padawan. Despite them surely being of age, he can see the way they stick to Price‘s side, dependant, unsure.

He doesn’t dwell on the encounter too long. The Clone War rages across the stars with growing brutality and war has always been good for business. He takes on jobs all over the outer rim, smuggles people and spice and weapons, while simultaneously making sure to leave no ship without a little visit.

He doesn’t see either of the Jedi for a long while. He heard of the internal issues, of disputed and insecurity within the precious order. It makes him burn with spite, they all deserve to choke on their pride.

When he does however meet the Padawan again, it‘s unexpected. Two of his loyal Shadows drag the young thing, though they don’t look quite as young anymore, to him by the scruff of their neck and their bound arms.

The first thing he notices is how rough they look. Dark circles under their eyes, sickly dull skin and an added layer of determination on their face. If he didn’t know they were a Padawan before, he never would have guessed. And then he notices why.

The little braid of hair, decorated with a personal selection of beads or small ribbons, is gone. As are they monk looking Jedi Robes, switched for some worn workwear. Average, unsuspecting.

“Well look who we have here?“ He taunts, as the Jedi, no Ex-Jedi, struggled against their cuffs and the hold his Shadows have on their arms. “What happened to you?“

But he already knows; everyone had heard the story of a runaway Jedi, a so called traitor that had seemingly attacked their own order. He wasn’t sure then, and now he was certain.

“Looks like someone‘s Master didn’t stand up for ‘em. Shame, you could‘ve done something with yourself for sure.“ He mused, strutting around them slowly, one of his rough hands dragging over their tense shoulders and up to their face.

As soon as his fingers graze the mean cut splitting their upper lip, marred and burned in a way he knows was caused by a lightsaber, they yelp. And that‘s when it happens.

One of the Shadows gets catapulted against the hallway wall by the invisible force still pulsing in their veins, the other has his feet swiftly kicked out. Price‘s previous Padawan has their lightsaber out, cuffs easily cut. There‘s that wild look in their eyes that Graves knows all too well. He‘s been there.

“Easy there.“ He chuckles, raising his hands even as the glowing hot lightsaber is pushed up just an inch away from his face.

“I know what he did to you.“ Graves gives them a once over, decides then and there. “When you needed him, got framed and fought all alone, he just turned his back to you.“

His fingers run over the cut on his cheek. “You‘re not the only one he left behind, didn’t help in need. I know how you feel.“ When they ease up slightly, he pushes their arm down and steps closer, offering a silver pendant dangling from a leather cord. His sigil.

“Say we make a deal. I teach you how to use that anger and help you out of a bad place.“ He smirks when their fingers clench around the cord and take it from him with a tug. No hesitation. “And in return, you will kill a man for me.“

Their eyes burn with barely restrained rage, pain glossing over it for just a second. “Deal.“ And with that, they shut off their lightsaber and slip it back into their tool belt, hidden well.

The pendant is slipped around their neck quickly, fingers just shortly stopping to softly touch the torn up lip. The way they eye Graves‘ own scar doesn’t go unnoticed. “You help me, and I‘ll kill a Jedi for you.“

Cw: gender neutral reader, blood and injury, monster au, creepy behavior

It starts simple. You get hired by Shadow Company and accept. It's good money and the engagement rules are a lot looser, than when you were still serving.

The Company works like a well oiled machine and you fit right in. The other Shadows are well trained, obedient. Not quite what you expected, but easy to fall into. Off duty they are still disciplined, but much more relaxed, as if they finally able to really goof around and have fun.

It does strike you as odd, how personal the other Shadows are with Commander Graves. Sometimes it's like they can read each other's minds, working much quicker and efficient than you. It feels like all the others always know what he wants or needs, before he even says it. But they assure you, that it's just like that, because they worked together much longer. You will also establish that bond, they tell you.

The masks are what really irks you, even on the longer run. Sure, you wear one as well, because everyone does and you were given one when you signed with the Shadows, but their insistence on always keeping them on feels off. You fight side by side, go through drills together and share a living space, yet few of them ever take off their masks around you. Some even sleep in it, and shower only late into the night.

They don't seem to sleep that much either, on the contrary. The Shadows seem more active at night, and resent the sun, often wearing caps or sunglasses when they step outside during the day.

It feels like everyone is in on a secret, but you. You can hear them whisper when you pass by, feel stares on your back, that feel almost predatory. Graves is the worst, in that matter. He never speaks that much to you, just check ins. How you like the Company, the other Shadows, if you have any issues at all.

No matter how many times you let him know that everything is fine, really, he keeps on boring, sneaking in little questions about your personal life. Do you have many friends outside of work; where is your family; how much contact do you keep with outsiders?

You begin to wonder if he wants to start some inappropriate relationship, when he pulls you aside more often and keeps you close during missions. It gets creepy when you think you see him lurking close by, stroll through the hallways at night and your things go missing.

It gets to a point where you sleep badly and your performance declines. Just this one last job, then you would renegotiate your contract, maybe even leave. The issue is, you don't get that far.

You're not really concentrated, operate sloppily for the entirety of the missions and it backfires. When clearing a room, you overlook an enemy. It happens too fast to register, then you're on the ground with a knife stuck between your ribs.

The helicopter ride back is blurry as you fade in and out of consciousness. Your tac vest is off, but nobody makes a move to work on your injury; you can hear your squad leader radio Graves. The other's stare at you with a burning intensity. In your dazed state, you wonder how you never noticed the lack of shine in their eyes. How thickly corded their muscle is. Under the red light inside the helicopter they look inhuman, uncanny.

Graves looks off as well, when the heli lands on the tarmac, he's not as calm as before. Almost on edge, as he jogs over to the stretcher you're being pushed on. His gaze is wild, frantic as he takes in the blood slowly oozing from your wound. He walks closely to you, a hand on your shoulder, until you get settled into your cot.

You don't have the energy to ask why no one is caring for you, or taking you to medical. The injury makes the racing of your heart worse, when more Shadows come in and stand around you, like they're witnessing something great. Maybe they are.

"Fuck, you smell so good. All f'me..." Graves whispers, fingers roaming over you lightly. He feels cold, too cold to be normal. Then, he tugs the knife out and you scream. You scream and you keep on screaming, even as the other Shadows hold you down to keep you from violently thrashing.

Graves is on you, licking up your blood. His eyes meet yours and you realize for maybe the first time, that he isn't human. None of them are. They're too perfect, too pretty, too sharp. Something else had laid under their skin this whole time and now, that his dull gaze and bloodshot eyes meet yours, you understand you walked into the wolf's den. That was their secret.

Even as your Commander lets off on lapping your blood, it doesn't get better. You feel like you should run, some deep instinct urging you to get away. But you can't; you're injured and held down. The other's are on you in a minute and Graves' gaze has changed. "Don't worry." He soothes, a palm running over your cold and clammy forehead. "This won't hurt too long."

Has he always been like this? Has his skin always been too pale and clean? Have his teeth always looked that animalistic, like canines? And his eyes? Oh god, they're not even really blue, not anymore.

There's no more time to dwell on it, on him, on the Shadows swarming you like starved animals, before he grabs your jaw to keep you still and bites. His teeth puncture your carotid artery and the world stops. It tingles first, then it burns. More fangs pierce your skin, every free inch.

It's unbearable and then, it's gone, all dark.

You have no idea how much time has passed, when you wake up. A nagging voice in the back of your head reminds you of your injuries. And that dream. You feel fine, but realize you shouldn't, not with what happened.

Slowly, like a storm rolling in, static fills your head. Voices, ones you recognize as the other Shadows, getting ever louder. You groan loudly, and rub your temple, before you find the strength to open your eyes.

The room is empty, save for your Commander, who stands at the foot of your cot and stares. He smiles, too sharply, but you feel connected to him now. There's a link between you, like a string keeping you together.

Images flash in your mind, quick and fractured, but somehow you understand. It gets quiet, like a crowd of people holding their breath. Blood and teeth, sharp canines and superhuman strength. Speed, a hunt for prey, and you and Graves and everyone else, connected somehow. No one has to say it out loud, you se it, feel it, know it. And they do too. You‘re one of them now, a vampire.

Graves nods, a barely there gesture, and licks his teeth. They still shin with what once was your blood. He doesn't speak, but you still har him. "You're finally home, soldier. Welcome to the coven."

You want to answer him, but something distracts you. There's a yawning emptiness in your stomach. It feels like a hole is ripped right through you. Graves steps aside and flicks his hand for you to follow him. Approval and congratulations fill your thoughts, voices of people you know, other Shadows roaming somewhere, but out of reach and somehow still there. Yet you only want to listen to him. He smiles in that way, that lets you know he knows how you feel. "Let's do something about that hunger, hm?"

Graves x TF141! Reader

CW: gender neutral reader, canon typical violence, capture, betrayal, manipulation, needles, drug abuse

When you first meet Commander Graves for assistance in erasing General Ghorbrani, you don't really know what to make of him. He's easy going, but still gets business done sternly and most of all, clean.

It takes you a little to get used to his relaxed nature that is somehow paired with a no bullshit attitude. Surprisingly, you come to like his way. He keeps things light, takes some of the edge off.

So when you meet him once more in Las Almas, you are delighted. Despite what Ghost and Soap say, you find Graves an ideal leader and coworker, someone you have no problem getting along with.

However, you wouldn't have ever thought that he had also taken a liking to you. Unbeknownst to you, Graves wants you by his side. And Graves always gets what he wants, even if he already planned on betraying you and your team from the start.

He is a dog with a bone, and if he considers you a part of that bone, you better start praying.

-

You don't expect his betrayal after the oil rig; are tired, worn out and cold. Everything on your mind is a warm shower, a good rest and maybe a drink with the team. Your tired mind doesn't really comprehend it at first, but then everybody starts yelling and slowly, you catch on.

It's hard to believe the man in front of you, who you've fought and celebrated with, had late conversations on transports with and most of all, looked up to with that special, undying kind of trust, is betraying you.

You don't want to hurt Graves, nor his shadows, even as Alejandro gets taken down. When Ghost and Soap involve themselves and the firing starts, it's already too late. You don't register the Shadow standing in your blind spot until it's too late.

When the handle of the man's rifle rams into the back of your head it's already too late. You see Graves staring at you with a disturbingly satisfied expression as you fall and your team makes a run for it. Then, the world goes dark.

-

When you wake up, the cold is gone and, oddly enough, your pain is limited and dull. It doesn't take you long to realize that your cell is dry and warm. You aren't tied up, instead laid down on a firm cot, with a slightly scratchy blanket draped over you. It's not ideal, but still, the care they treat you with doesn't match what usually happens when somebody gets captured.

Quickly you find out, that they took your gear and stripped you to your fatigues. They are still a little clammy, but the bone deep cold is gone. Your head is swimming and buzzes with a dull pain. Distantly you wonder if it's because they drugged you.

There's little time to dwell on it when Graves steps in, just a few minutes after you gain your bearings. He seems relaxed and friendly, not behaving like he should after what he pulled off. When you angrily inquire about his motives he smiles and you in that sweet and charming way that has always made your ears burn.

"You're lucky we got ahold of you when we did." He assures you like he actually cares and it's so easy to believe him. You can't recall the interaction at the gate, but you vaguely remember Alejandro and Soap disagreeing with Graves, before all hell broke loose.

It's easy to lean into his soft touches when he checks your wounds and fills you in with what happened. You're tired, hurt and not quite clear, so when Graves talks, you nod along. It does make sense, you find.

"Shepherd pulled them off, because they don't have clearance. We do, and we have Valeria; we were so close to cleaning up this mess. Only reason they would fight back is..." He pauses and rubs your shoulder comfortingly. "...because they're involved. I'm sorry."

He assures you again and again that he doesn't blame you, that he believes you, when you try to messily explain you didn't know about what they were involved with. When he's done he calls one of his men to bring you some food and slowly helps you eat. When your pain flares up, he carefully injects you with something, painkillers he says, and convinces you to lie down, take a little rest..

You find yourself glad that he helped you when he did, that he sensed your confusion and kept you out of this trouble. Tiredly you nod along to Graves talking about taking care of it all and you under his wing. He wants you for the company and you need a team now. Even with your head swimming you can agree with him, because as always, he keeps it light and easy.

Even when you heal up, you don't mind the medication that he makes sure you take regularly, because the buzzing in your skull never gets better without them. Neither do you mind that Graves keeps you off records, and off the field, always by his side, at his desk, in his arm's reach. Soap and Ghost might still be after you, it's for your safety, he explains to you one sleepless night.

On rare occasions you miss your old team and it's those times that your head badly hurts again. But Graves, no Phillip, is always there, holding you close and talking you through your episodes. He tugs you close to him afterwards, hands you a painkiller and whispers reassurances in your ear until you fall asleep surrounded by his warmth.

You're glad to have him, even think you love him. With time, the fear leaves and you adjust well, ever happy that he saved you when he did.

"Prone to manipulation" your file had warned in your psychological evaluation, good thing he saved you from 141 when he did, who knows what might have happened to you in dishonest hands...

This definitely activated some new part of my brain

Cw: Gender Neutral reader, hybrid unspecified aside from dog, inequal/ toxic relationships

Graves who at first doesn't even consider a hybrid. His men work just fine and are loyal, why spend so much time recruiting one more soldier?

He only gets you because a favor is due, and some investor has shady contacts. The man swears up and down that you are more than just a regular soldier when he hands you over; the perfect, obedient death machine.

At first, Graves isn't convinced at all, just thinks it's bit silly when the courier gets you from a large crate in the trunk, instead of the backseat. The muzzle and leash seem over the top and as soon as he's handed your papers, Graves takes them off.

He eyes you with amusement, clearly lost and not sure where to put your hands. He takes notes of your shaggy hair and worn clothes and guides you through base to pick up new fatigues. Only when you try to put them on, but fail miserably, because without a small hole for your tail, they sit way too low, does he Strat to realize maybe he underestimated the difference between human and hybrid needs.

So, Graves makes sure you have some shirts at least. A waterproof jacket, a fleece and something comfortable for off the field. You barely manage not to hit him with your steadily wagging tail, accidentally nuzzling his shoulder in excitement, apologizing profusely just after thanking him.

After that, he lets you get settled. You share a room with two other young Privates, two humans. They approach Graves quickly, because no matter how nice they try to be, you seem afraid, sleep curled in a corner and tear out your own hair from nervousness.

You get your own room after that and, after tenderly talking to you for an hour at least, you allow an older, quieter Shadow from medical to fix your shaggy hair cut. You never even realized how bothersome your hair was before that.

But still, the issues don't fix themselves. During training it's all well. You follow orders to a T, never talk back, always treat other's respectfully. But on the field, when no one personally guides you, you get lost, mess up, stop functioning. The longer it goes on, the worse your stress gets. After a few months and the third chewed up pair of expensive combat boots and utility belts, Graves pulls you aside.

He reads up on hybrids almost daily, asks dog handlers for advice, after those of hybrid handlers didn't work out at all for you. His presence is steady, but not possessive. Stern, but not unkind.

Quickly you feel yourself lean into his guidance, until you ask him if he wants your collar back. You feel obliged to obey him, he's your master now, you hesitantly explain to him one night. And surprisingly, from how much he disliked your animalistic treatment when he got you, he agrees.

It's not one of those scratchy ones from the pet store, but all soft padding and strong fabric. A little like your vest and utility belt. Made for the field, yet still super comfortable. You love it, trying to never take it off. It smells like his hands, because whenever you do well he rubs your neck, tracing the edge of the collar lovingly. There's a small space for velcro patches and you proudly carry the company insignia and the callsign he chose for you. Graves has to wrestle you every now and then so he you take it off for washing.

The two of you only get closer after that. It's almost impossible for you to function on your own, having never learned etiquette and how to handle your own thoughts, how to relive stress or any other strong feelings. So he handles it for you, lets you work it out of yourself or lovingly pets you until you finally let your tense muscles relax.

You can't sleep without his warmth and scent, migrating to the floor next to his bed, or cot, most nights. It gets to a point where he just calls you in when he gets settled or thinks you need a rest, so you won't bother him later on and stick to a healthier schedule. It's only natural you take place by his legs, tangled in a fleece blanket and stolen towels to smell like your handler and team. They even get you a stuffed animal that you love dearly, so you won't feel alone.

Quickly, no one is bothered by you bouncing after Graves with attentive ears and a wagging tail, or you sitting by his feet during briefings and meals. Most of the Shadows have won your trust by now, majorly because if Graves trusts them, so why shouldn't you? Nobody dares to voice that your entire behavior isn't normal or healthy, instead opting to appreciate your boundless loyalty and dedicated nature.

Even the border collie hybrid of 141, Soap, can't make up your mind, instead raising your defenses and separating the Shadows and 141, as well as Vaqueros, further. It's clear that you only listen to them, and they rely on your instincts to make decisions.

Cw: Gender Neutral reader, hybrid unspecified aside from dog, light talk of injuries and fights, toxic relationships

When he first gets you into the Company, he isn’t quite sure what to do. He‘d worked with dogs during his time in the USMC, but dog hybrids?

He‘ll treat you like a soldier, he decides. Gives orders, corrects mistakes and praises jobs well done. It takes him a little to notice that doesn’t really work.

Your dog part handles his treatment a lot differently. Without precise instructions you are, despite all training, lost in the field. Even the smallest of praises sends your tail wagging wildly and messes your concentration up, and even a displeased frown results in pinned ears and a tugged in tail.

So Graves changes his approach, treats you more dog-like. He doesn’t understand that you weren’t brought up as an equal like most hybrids, but he‘s happy his methods work. You were lesser, always, that was something you followed, he realised quickly.

He makes you heel and sit. By his desk, in the cargo plane, during meal times. And it helps, oddly enough. Precise commands and a little work have you doing excellent field work, acting almost like his personal guard dog.

It escalates so much you follow him everywhere. Eating from his hand becomes the norm, sleeping at the bottom of his cot, like a real dog. You long for his hand between your ears, in your hair, rubbing over the collar that holds the Company logo.

You don’t realise the difference, and neither Graves nor the Shadows care much about it, between you and the average hybrid. You were a favour from one of his contacts, practically raised for the job instead of by a loving family. So you cling to scraps of affection, dig your teeth in and don‘t let go. Performing well will get you the love you yearn for.

Oh, but when Graves takes you to Las Almas to hunt down Hassan, does it become clear that you are more than a regular hybrid soldier with a fair contract and life. You stay by his side, like always, listen to his beck and call. But you can feel how the Vaqueros glance at you. Like a mutt, not an ally. Disgusted by how you act, too animalistic, too loyal. They don’t understand that it’s not just Graves treatment, it’s how you function.

While they keep a professional distance, the 141 dog hybrid, Soap, and his handler Ghost inquire. Soap greets you happily, sniffs you up and down and bounces off the walls like a puppy. You only inspect him with hesitation after Graves nods and places an encouraging hand on the back of you neck.

It doesn’t take the Scot long to realise there is something odd to you. When he tries to playfully wrestle and chase you around on a field after dinner on the first day, it ends with Graves sharply whistling you to his heel, scruffing you neck and pulling you off a shocked Soap with angry reprimands. You don’t realise that the bruises on Soap‘s face are bad, that you were supposed to blow of some steam, instead of establishing your strength and rank.

Graves shortens you leash after that, literally. Hooks it to your collar on base, muzzles you when Soap riles up your dog part too much with his careless energy and willingly instinctual behaviour. He knows that you are more instinct than control, unlike Soap, and that it will end with hurt and confusion for the other once more.

The 141 men quickly get a feel for who you are after the little incident between you and Soap; the attack dog that only seems to obey the shadows. They find your reliance on Graves odd, the way you always circle him like he‘s the center of your galaxy. Between him and his Sergeant, Ghost calls you unsafe, an unpredictable and emotionally reliant animal.

But they only truly understand the extend of your loyal and dependent temper when the Shadow Company Commander betrays them at the gate. The way his hybrid lunges at the smallest signal, taking down Alejandro and setting their eyes on Soap state a clear message. Don’t fuck with Graves, or you will regret it.