“Good job, wonderpup!” A guy, Owen, boasts. You’d successfully defeated a clicker with your bare paws, poisonous blood dripping down your forearms and dirtying your shirt. Would definitely have to get washed when your team heads back to base.

Your nose crinkles, having hated the nicknames the soilders would give you. It’s no surprise with you being a, well, wolf. In the WLF. Jokes galore.

This may or may not be the reason you’re sour to everyone. Well not everyone-everyone. You still like Abby.

She’s like you are; cool, collected, serious. Not even she like those little jabs, thinks they’re immature for men and women their age.

“Would you stop, Owen? Seriously, not funny.”