From the moment that Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley and Sergeant John “Soap” MacTavish had first set eyes on you, they knew that you were the person to complete them.

They were both werewolves, part of the elite Task Force 141. You were a young canine hybrid, in training to become a military canine unit. You had been bred for war and violence, but your nature was still sweet. Your handlers were too hard on you, and you were too small and gentle for the work, only a few months old and barely more than the human equivalent of a toddler.

So, with a little help from their captain, Price, the two men managed to withdraw you from the course and adopt you as their own. Someday, maybe, they would train you themselves, and they planned to eventually turn you the way they had been turned— to rid you of your human side altogether, and allow you to become stronger and faster, an asset on the field, unable to be truly harmed by anything but a silver bullet.

But for now, you’re just their little baby. They’re strict with you, but never harsh, and more often than not, one flash of your big, wide puppy eyes is enough to make them instantly melt to your demands.

At the moment, you’re roughhousing with Johnny on the floor of the rec room, your happy yips and chirps filling the air and he gently pins you, blowing raspberries against your furry stomach. “Och, Ah’ve got ye now, ye wee menace! Who’s a braw bairn? Is it ye, aye? Are ye mah bonny pup? Y’are!”

You squeal in delight, helplessly kicking your small legs as Johnny tickles your sides. Simon watches from the couch, clad in his usual black off-duty clothes, face covered by his balaclava but not his skull mask. “Johnny, don’t overwhelm ‘em. Don’t want ‘em wettin’ by accident because they got too excited.” “Aw, L.t, don’t spoil the fun!” Simon rolls his eyes, patting his broad, muscular thigh. His gaze is on you. “C’mere, sweet’eart. Up up.”

You obediently scamper over to curl up in his lap, nuzzling against his chest. He pats your fluffy head and takes a sip of his tea.