#mean 141

The first time you attempted to nip playfully while sparring, Soap flinched and growled. It seemed so out of character coming from the usually upbeat and respectful fox hybrid. So you didn't try that again.

But you thought it'd be fine to rub your shoulder against Ghost's when you're both waiting in the hall to deliver a report - it's something you'd done all your life with other cat hybrids, even bears and birds were usually ok with it. And you'd seen the way the team ping-ponged between each other, like playing a game of scent hot potato. But the borzoi hybrid's head snapped to face you, the rest of his uncanny, large form unmoving. He didn't growl, but he didn't let off his sharp stare until you pulled away the offensive touch and folded your arms instead.

Gaz once found you asleep on the couch in the 141's barracks, your arms curled around the decorative pillow like a lifeline after a grueling day of training in the rain. He had politely woken you up and (strongly) suggested that you not make it a habit to "take up too much of the shared space". Which seemed odd for a jackal hybrid who consistently forced the others to go have a nap somewhere, anywhere, when they were obviously running on fumes.

Price was reasonably distant for a leader you weren't familiar with, and you didn't try to get chummy with him. But you couldn't help noticing how he checked over each of his men when heading out to an op, noticing every detail - did Ghost have an extra mask, and a pair of gloves? Was Soap hydrated, with enough snacks stored away? Was Gaz fully, fully recovered from his cold, and did he text his nephews to let them know he'd be gone for a while?

But when his eyes shifted to you, it was like the dingo hybrid didn't know what he was looking at. Didn't know what to look for. So he looked away.

You get left behind in ops, barely getting cover fire when you call for it - not that you need much, the team works so quickly and so in sync, hardly ever missing a target - and you desperately try to make it to the front of the action to prove yourself. But before you can make a move all the rooms are swept and the enemy is engaged with your teammates, only slim pickings for you. It makes your ears twitch, makes you reckless, and when you finally catch up, you're flinching against hold orders to be there first, to do something. Ghost has to yank you back by the straps of your vest more than once, and you get a gruff talking to from Price during debrief. Your impulsively burdens the team. I'd expect more grace from a cat hybrid. Just let the others do the job and keep the hell outta the way an eye out. Double tap, clean up, look for intel. When you rest after a grueling day, you find yourself on the outskirts of the pack, the backs of the others as they coil around each other giving you the sense of a cold stone wall you can never breach. Five is not an even number - no one there to run beside you on drills, or to engage you in conversation at meal times. There's no room for you. Why did Laswell recommend you for this crew to begin with?

Eventually you're so starved for praise, to be a part of the team, you go on a suicide mission. Nobody had expected it to be feasible, it was an option Soap threw out just for the hell of it. Almost a joke. You know that. Instead, they would rest and regroup, plan around their resources and find a strategy that wouldn't get anyone killed. Once they had the info they needed, they would jave a foothold in the region and the other teams would be able to make a final push toward victory. But for now, they were all tired. So it wasn't hard to sneak out of the safe house and treck through the city's underbelly to the target. What was more difficult was sneaking in to the fortified "sanctuary of depravity" (Price's words) unnoticed. You were almost vibrating with the bliss of being able to let your instincts take the wheel, to stalk and pounce and pad silently through the now bloodied halls. And miracle upon miracle, the sun rose, and you made it out alive. The intel the team required was now strapped inside your vest, likely stained with blood. All you wanted to do was collapse into the makeshift nest at the safehouse and sleep for days.

When you slink back to the entrance of the unassuming residence, you aren't prepared to guard yourself against Price's sudden movement, pinning you by the throat against the door frame before you manage to come inside. The adrenaline was finally wearing off, and you felt the ambush hit you like a ton of bricks.

"What the fuck have you done?"

You suppose by now the smoke has risen high enough over the watery sunlight to be seen. The smell of blood fills your nostrils, and your hand grips Price's, claws blackened by dirt and viscera. The rest of you must look like a wreck.

"Sir," you manage, the word eeking out of your collapsed throat, but his teeth snap at your face when you move your other hand to your vest.

"Cap," Soap says tentatively. Not coming to your defense, more like he worries his superior will do something he might later regret. You spot Ghost behind him, arms crossed, looking too big for the room. Your tail whips dazedly this way and that, the way a dead body jerks before it realizes it's not supposed to.

"What could you possibly have to say for yourself?" Price barks, and grabs you by the collar, moving you only to slam you against the wall inside the small room. Gaz shuts the door, eyeing you suspiciously. Price's claws press into your chest, just above your heart. A warning. He'll let you speak, for as long as he's willing to listen.

"Your-... intel," you gasp, your words coming out weaker than you feel. But you know the crash is tumbling in, and you need to fix this before you do something stupid, like pass out. Or throw up. Your jaw clenches as you notice a sharp pain blossoming in your side. "Ugh- my vest. Got you the manual you r-ugh, the manual... you requested. Sir." You gasped. "Ple-ease un-nsheathe y'r claws fr'm'my side sir," you squeak out, your face going red from the pain. Price's eyes lose a bit of the rage sparking behind them and instead take on a look of frustrated consternation.

"The fuck are you talking about soldier?"

"My... the intel, I have-" Price steps away from you suddenly, and you wait for the pain to recede. But it doesn't. Instead you're falling to the floor, curling around the tender flesh of your side like it's a broken support column and you're some sad, terrorized building.

Ghost steps forward and crouches before you, looking you over intently.

"He didn't touch you," he says, mildly, like an afterthought. His attention is on the thick cardstock cover he can see poking out of your vest. He rolls you onto your back, and it feels like you keep going, keep spinning into yourself and into that pain in your side, in your head. You hear more than feel the sides of your vest unbuckle, the wet, tacky sound of it pulling slowly away from your undershirt.

"Steamin' bloody-" Soap's voice, cut off by your own choked scream when you feel hands on you, too close to the region of your body to which your entire perception has collapsed.

"How is it?" You hear Gaz ask.

"Legible," Price grunts.

"Jesus Cap, I meant the wound, not the bloody booklet!"

"Bad," is all Ghost says. At least, it's all you hear befor◼️◼️◼️◼️◼️◼️◼️

TMI my little friends. As I was writing this I was suddenly struck with a bout of the violent shits. So I was sitting there, clenching in pain, and found myself using the opportunity to voice reader's words as if I was being threatened by a feral dog and not my own asshole. You are most welcome.