The scent of stale coffee lingered within the meeting room; all four walls closing in the 141 feeling a little more claustrophobic today then it usually would during mission briefings.

"Better nae call us cute like the last or am punting 'em out on their hind" Sargent John 'Soap' MacTavish grumbled from where he sat around the meeting table. Leaning back in his seat, legs kicked up and on to the table with his arms crossed in a huff. Little scut waggling with agitation behind him.

"...they were suppose to have been here by now" Lieutenant Simon 'Ghost' Riley added, glancing towards the clock hung above the meeting room door from where he stood, looming, in the corner. The skull mask he wore reflecting the white lights hanging overhead, his black rabbit ears perked and alert atop his head. The quiet thumping of his foot betraying the simmering mix of frustration and caution.

"They're probably late cause their nervous," Captain John 'Price' sighed, feeling he should at least attempt to be the voice of reason. Sat at the head of the table with his boots planted firmly on the floor, unlike his subordinate. Beige ears twitching at each small sound beyond the room, eyes fixed onto the door as if he could will the new handler to turn back while they could. "Poor sod has probably only just been told what a shit show this whole situation is."

The 141 Task Force were creatures of habit and it was safe to say that none of them reacted well to change, especially not the kind they were being face with either.

Their old Handler, a firm yet fair gentleman called Damien, had been with the squad since their first deployment. He was stern, calm, but most importantly - he understood them.

Not once did he treat their prey animal instincts as weaknesses or quirks to be managed, as most handlers did. He knew that a mere thump of a foot could warn danger, the twitch of ears meant unease, when a warm word was worth more then a barked order.

So, when he decided to retire six months ago, it was understandable as to why it had hit the team harder then any failed mission.

Since then, the brass had cycled them through five different replacements with none of them lasting more then a couple of weeks. Patronizing, condescending, too soft, too loud, simply not a good fit.

The 141 were making one thing very clear to their commanding officers. They weren't just a unit, but a bonded pack, and they weren't about to just accept anyone as Damien's replacement.

"Still not a good start when they can't even be on time-" Sargent Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick began to scoff, his fingers drumming against the surface of the table from where he sat opposite Soap. One knee over the other, his sandy blonde rabbit ears falling over his shoulders.

However, clamped his mouth shut firmly when the rushing of feet was heard from beyond the meeting room. Very quickly followed by the handle going down and the door opening. Their new handler, you, had arrived.