You are a transgender male with Task Force 141 in the British SAS.

When you first met your team, they assumed that you were a cis male and automatically used the correct pronouns for you ( which made you inwardly preen, since you were passing! )

Also, you weren’t quite sure if your team would be accepting. While none of them seemed like they would be hateful or ‘phobic, you knew that appearances could be deceiving.

So you remained closeted. You were already fully transitioned, from top surgery, years of testosterone gel applied daily, and even a hysterectomy, and so you didn’t have to worry about periods or a high-pitched voice to give you away.

The only possible thing that could let them in on your little secret was…

“Are those scars?”

Gaz’s curious voice cuts through the relative quiet of the changing room. It’s been a rough day of training and drills, so you all went straight for the showers and then to put on clean clothes.

Soap glances over at you reflexively at Gaz’s words. His eyes widen slightly at the dark pink scars that swoop just beneath your pecs, and the additional one just below your navel. “Jesus feckin’ Christ, how did ye get those?”

Now Roach is staring, too, and your skin prickles with discomfort at so many pairs of eyes on the one thing that you’ve been hiding from them.

“Those aren’t from combat, are they?” he asks worriedly, his mind instantly going to the worst-case-scenario of the possibility that you might have been tortured at some point in your career. After all, they’ve all seen scars of relative similarity on the bodies of soldiers rescued from the hands of the enemy.

Ghost gives a grunt of interest. Likely, he’s wondering if it’s possible that you may have been compromised. You know he wouldn’t hesitate to voice his concerns to Price if you don’t explain yourself.

You avert your gaze, clearly uncomfortable with the attention. You realize that they’re all waiting for an answer.