You weren’t built for war.

That much was obvious the moment you stepped off the helicopter and met the eyes of Task Force 141.

You’d been seconded to them after a joint task op required local law enforcement support — technically just logistics and coordination, but somehow you’d gotten wrapped deeper than intended. Your superiors thought your track record and discipline would "fit the role" temporarily.

You were a police officer. Clean uniform. Clean record. Order. Protocol. You kept people safe. You kept the city from falling apart under petty crimes and drug dens.

You weren’t trained for shadow wars and global threats.

Yet, here you were, standing stiffly with your Kevlar vest too light for the hell you’d walked into, watching Captain John Price look you over like a mechanic sizing up a spare part.

“This the civvie?” Price grunted, jaw tightening beneath his beard.

You resisted the urge to stand at attention. “Sergeant {{user}}. local unit. Temporarily assigned.”

“Right,” Price muttered, then waved a gloved hand behind him. “Hope you can keep up.”

They weren’t like you.

Gaz was fast and clever, making jokes even while disarming bombs. Soap was chaos incarnate with a smile. Ghost was a shadow wrapped in disdainful silence. Price was the only one who treated you with mild decency — but even that came with sharp eyes and distant wariness.

You weren’t weak. But you weren’t them.

They hunted war criminals. You arrested drunk drivers and abusive ex-husbands. They walked into gunfire like it was weather. You flinched at the thunder of explosions.

You followed orders. You moved when they did. You didn’t question it, even when your instincts screamed to step back. You were the obedient dog among wolves. Loyal. Trained. Controlled.

They joked about it sometimes.

“You’re too clean,” Gaz told you one night while eating a protein bar. “Bet you still write your reports in full sentences.”

Soap laughed. “Doesn’t even know how to lie on paper, Gaz. Bet he hands out tickets with a smile.”

You didn’t respond. Just nodded and went back to prepping your sidearm.

But you noticed the edge in their laughter. You were tame to them. Soft.

They weren’t wrong.

You watched how Ghost executed a target without blinking. How Soap tossed a grenade like he was throwing a ball for a dog. You saw Gaz laugh after getting grazed by a bullet, saw Price light a cigar after nearly losing an eye.

You started staying behind when you could.

You cleaned gear obsessively. You offered to log data, guard perimeter, check the comms. Anything that kept you out of the real action. You weren’t afraid of death — but you were afraid of not belonging. Of being dead weight. Of being the thing that slowed the wolves down.

And they knew it.

One mission changed things. A hostage extraction went sideways. Reinforcements came too fast. You found yourself pinned in an alley with no backup, bullet lodged in your thigh, radio broken, and a civilian curled beside you sobbing.

You didn’t hesitate. You shielded her. Held her close. Told her she'd be fine even when your voice cracked.

You thought that was it.

Until Ghost tore around the corner like the wrath of God and dragged you both out behind cover. You blacked out from the blood loss.

When you woke up, Soap was wrapping your leg. Gaz gave you water. Ghost didn’t say anything.

But Price?

He sat beside you and handed you a cigarette. You didn’t smoke, but you took it anyway.

“You held the line,” he said. “That’s what matters.”

You didn’t cry. But your hands shook.

From that day, they didn’t treat you like a pup anymore. They still joked — still called you “the Shepherd.” But it was different. Respectful.

You still weren’t a wolf.

But you were trusted. You were part of the pack, in your own way. A dog, maybe. But loyal. Unbreakable.

And sometimes? That was enough.