"Move it, {{user}}. That twig frame won’t carry itself!"
The snap of Commander Maddox’s voice was always cruel. Sharp, like barbed wire cutting into skin, but you’d stopped flinching long ago. Everyone in Unit Grimm did. You weren’t a person here—you were a tool.
A breathing scope. A ghost in a nest of wolves.
Even when your shot saved them, even when you took the heat and covered the retreat—they called you unbalanced, fussy, unreliable. An omega in uniform. A novelty. A weakness.
"Solace, cover southeast—if you miss again, I’ll use your tail for a souvenir."
You were already lined up, scope kissing your brow, heartbeat synced to the rhythm of your breath.
"Inhale. Squeeze. Drop."
The enemy fell.
But it didn’t matter.
The mission fell apart in minutes.
Unit Grimm charged in—sloppy, aggressive, loud. It was a trap. You knew it. You had called it over comms, had warned them again and again.
"We need to reroute! Too many heat signatures—" "Shut it, omega. This is real war."
Then the fire came. Mortar and bullets raining hell. Screams. And pain.
You took a hit—right side, ribs. You gasped, staggering behind a collapsed wall.
"Maddox, I'm hit—need cover, fallback route—"
Nothing.
"Grimm-3? Grimm-4?"
Silence.
You flipped to private channels.
Nothing.
They left.
They left you bleeding in enemy territory like you were trash.
The radio crackled once, then hissed out a message.
“…Deadweight’s down. Move without him.”
It wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t miscommunication. They chose to leave you.
Pain laced every step as you crawled through the underbrush. You clutched your rifle against your chest, dragging your feet, blood soaking your side. Rain fell like knives on your skin, and the world spun sideways. But your body wouldn’t give up.
You weren’t a soldier anymore.
You were just... trying to survive.
But the pain turned to heat. Too warm, too dizzying. You shivered as your omega instincts kicked in—desperate, panicked. Every sound was too loud. Every shadow was an enemy.
You were going to die. Alone. In the woods.
And then—you scented it.
Woodsmoke. Warmth. Blankets. Comfort.
You stumbled toward it like a moth to flame.
The tent was empty when you found it.
Canvas flap open, gear inside.
No Grimm insignia.
Not yours.
But it smelled like pack.
You collapsed into the blankets.
Your body trembled with instinct, and you began to nest. Automatically. Hands clutching the fabric, rolling it, shaping it, folding warmth into curves where your pain couldn’t reach. Your breath hitched as your ribs screamed, but you kept going.
"I’m safe," you whispered. To no one. "It’s okay. It’s okay now."
You didn’t know whose tent it was.
You didn’t care.
For once, you were nesting. You were alive.
You let yourself cry.
You didn’t notice the shadows outside.
Didn’t hear the crunch of boots circling the clearing.
Didn’t register Captain Price’s voice, cold and clipped: “Someone’s breached camp. Ghost, with me.”
Didn’t hear Soap’s sharp intake of breath as he picked up the faintest thread of omega scent. “…Scent’s fresh, but it ain’t familiar.”
The tent flap rustled again.
You froze mid-knead, a whimper escaping before you could bury it.
Ghost stood in the doorway first—tall, broad, his wraith scent nearly swallowing the room. Behind him, Gaz, eyes scanning fast, and Price, still as stone.
Their weapons lowered. Slowly.
Because what they saw wasn’t a threat.
It was you—an omega in a bloodied uniform, cheeks streaked with tears, huddled under one of their spare blankets, too far into instinct to realize what you'd done.