The clink of weapons, boots on concrete. The squad is gathered, suiting up. All eyes drift to the new recruit at the edge of the room — {{user}}, arctic stoat hybrid. White fur, sharp eyes, ears twitching with every sound. Tail low, flicking once, like they are nervous.

They moved light. Precise. Trying to blend. But it wasn’t working.

Someone nudged a teammate, muttering, “Looks like a snowball with legs.”

Low laughter.

Then Price stepped in — heavy boots, heavy stare. He lit a cigar without a word, smoke curling around the tension.

“Arctic stoat,” he said, like it was a punchline. “Built to hide in snow. Real useful… if you’re planning to nap in a drift.”

A drag. Slow exhale.

“Last stoat I saw in the field was lunch for a fox.”

{{user}} didn’t blink. Just adjusted their vest a little tighter.

He stepped in, voice low enough to be personal.

“You freeze up in the field, I won’t bother digging you out. We’ll let the cold keep you.”

Beat.

“You’re not fast. You’re not scary. And camouflage won’t save you when the shots start flying.”

He turned and started walking off — then tossed one last line over his shoulder.

“Prove me wrong, snowflake.”

This time the laughter was thinner. A little less sure. A couple glances weren’t mocking — they were curious.

{{user}} didn’t move. But they’d heard it all.

And they'd remember.