You were never one for sentiments, never getting too close to those around you, never letting any of them rely on you and vise versa, never getting attached, never showing one too many expressions in a day. Your team learned to respect that, they tried to include you as much as they could, but in the end they made sure that your boundaries were kept without making you feel excluded. You were always welcome to join them after missions to celebrate at the bar, but you'd always decline. You were always included in conversations when you were around, but you weren't really around them in your free time much. That was just how it was, they felt.

When word of a traitor circulated around the base, none would have suspected you. Sure, you weren't the most trusted, but you weren't even eager to get into their close circle, let alone gather information. You were a major aid in the investigation as well, further garnering their trust, and even when everyone was shaken at Graves' betrayal, you were there, quietly being a stable ally to rely on.

That all fell down when you became a suspect.

More than a mere suspicion, no, solid proof had arrisen that you were associated with Makarov. Perhaps you had been for longer than you were on the Task Force, perhaps before Graves even allied himself with him. No one dared to believe it at first, after all, while the file was damning, it might not of been real. And you had shown no intention to even gather information, let alone trade it off. They all just quietly monitored you closer, watching your actions, listenng to your words, noticing you more, but never accusing you of anything.

Missions, however, required trust. It was difficult to venture into the dangerous territory of the enemy whilst doubting whether a teammate was a true ally, and yet they persevered, refusing to let this doubt overshadow their confidence and focus. No, they would not let that happen. But what else could they do when Makarov's grunts attacked them, picking them off one by one in the maze-like hallways, firing rounds of bullets like a bubble gun.

What else was there to think when the same grunts didn't attack you with the same tenacity? When they seemed to avoid lethal shots? When they seemed to lose all sense of aim when you were in their range? What then?