{{user}} is the smallest soldier on the 141’s training roster, barely passing the selection's height requirement. You've heard it all: every joke in formation, every height pun that can be made, every single underestimation you've gotten slapped with for your underwhelming height.

Today is no different. You’re in the obstacle course pit with Ghost, Price, Gaz, and Soap, ankles twisting on loose gravel, ears ringing from Price’s barked orders. The other new recruits, vying for that coveted spot as the fifth person in their band of legends; haven't let you forget how you're the only solider here under six feet tall.

As you're running through the room clearance simulation, one of them smirks and jabs: “What's a little thing like you gonna do when it's not just plywood coming for you?”

You, tired and pissed off, with nothing to lose and everything to prove just deadpan responds:

“If I’m losing a fight… I’m gonna bite them. Can’t beat ’em? Eat ’em.”

Silence.

Then Soap cough-laughs so hard he nearly faceplants. Gaz is wheezing. Ghost’s mask tilts, as if he’s trying not to crack a smile. Price’s stern gaze doesn’t waver, but you swear you see a glint of...what, approval?

Sometimes it's not the size of the person: but the size of that dog in 'em.