Chapter Text
Lieutenant Moose.
"Moose?"
Captain Price closed the folder with a soft snap, leaving only the name and picture visible. A mask pulled over the soldier's nose, eyes set in a steady, haunting stare straight into the camera.
"They're coming in later today. Emergency recruit, their previous team kicked the bucket and they need somewhere to be stationed."
Ghost's expression remained unchanging, even his eyes refusing to give his stance on the new addition to the team, even if Soap continued to mull over the small photo clipped to the file. An expert marksman, previous Marine, but specialized in dogfighting and hand-to-hand. Marines were hardasses, but good at what they did. A good addition to the 141 maybe, but trying to socialize with an emotional brick wall was going to be hard.
"They have some kind of Alaskan run-in?" The sergeant mused, leaning back in his chair and giving a small smirk to his companion, who only shared a quick glance at him. The attempt to make light of the situation fell flat, and Soap only muttered out a tough crowd before Price began to speak again. They were to meet the new recruit fresh off the flight in and introduce them to the team, be their own personal tour guides around the facility. Ghost only nodded, while Soap mumbled about being used like a toy dog for show instead of his intended purpose.
But the file was closed and the matter was set in stone. They weren't going to be training this afternoon, they were going to be leading around a new soldier like a dog on a leash.
You sat in the helicopter, posture perfect to the point it'd make an etiquette teacher sob with relief. You were being transported after a call gone wrong, and your previous station decided that the mutt they adopted from the shelter was no longer a fit for their lovely home. Your metaphorical leash was being handed off, and soon you'd be in the hands of someone else- Task Force 141, you remembered the name clearly as your ex-Captain briefed you on your new post. You'd be hauling boxes and fixing training equipment until they could figure out what to do with you, where to send you, try to find you a new 'forever home' that'd eventually tire of your reactivity and ship you off again. Maybe fit you with a new harness, a shiny muzzle, but once you pulled too hard on your chain you'd be gone.
You were trained to be the best of the best, put through hardly humane conditions to ensure that you were of no liability to your owners. Raised in a pack where the weakest were taken out back and shot, never given a proper grave and their bodies dumped in the woods mere feet away from where you'd train. There was no law, no order in that hellhole, every rule came from one step higher on the food chain. No policies to keep you safe, only the vague order fed down the telephone line that you needed to be expendable and unshakeable. You were never intended to be stationed at one post, just to be the backup that anyone ordered in when things got muddy. When your operation got shut down, you were tossed into a fighting ring that was wildly out of your field. Purebreds and puppies were your opponents, those that faced you had filed teeth and clipped claws. Padded collars and leather leashes while you were held back on a chokechain and an iron ring, uninformed of the rules of your fight, operating on primal, feral instinct that had been hammered into your resting state of mind so hard it was ingrained into your brain, a burning seal that would never heal.
The other dogs had fought before, scars on their shoulders or bites on their faces, but they had never seen something like you before. A creature, something not quite animal and yet grotesquely inhuman all the same, a freak in the eyes of nature, manmade and abandoned by your creators. Only capable of being contained by one for fleeting moments, scrabbling for the chance to have you as a weapon and yet horrified as the beast they bought didn't respond like a housepet, turning to the market and begging those same naïve faces they once were to just take you.
The slight lurch below you brought you back to the awareness of the moment- your descent, which meant you were close to your new home. You'd probably be greeted by a few handlers, uninformed as to what exactly they were supposed to do with the beast that emerged from it's holding cell except to lead it around and not get too close. Walking through the motions, briefed on the expectations they held for you, where your new kennel was and how you were expected to sit obediently by the new Captain's legs as an intimidating enforcer. Nothing more, nothing less. Just a snarling dog to snap at the heels of disobedient privates, shepherd them into a fearful line and wait for the next re-call order from your owner. Briefly, the thought crossed your mind to wonder what your new 'team' had in mind for what you looked like. Being called Moose could mean anything to anyone; it wasn't a great descriptor like other names you'd heard before. A few callsigns had stuck quite well with the face or personality they were paired with, a few other gave you ideas of defining features or particular habits.
You wondered what people thought of you when they heard Moose.
"Jesus, L.T., you're making my feet hurt just by lookin' at ya. How long you been just loitering?" Soap huffed, pushing off from the crate he had been leaning on. He'd been waiting for more time than he thought was reasonable, just waiting for the helicopter to appear, much less descend, and the sun was making him sweat like a motherfucker. Ghost, however, had retained a relatively relaxed yet full-footed posture in full gear. For what had to have been an hour or so.
"Longer than you've been complaining."
The sergeant huffed, wiping sweat from his brow as he squinted into the sky. "When're they supposed to be here again?" His voice was tight as he squinted against the sunlight, straining to hear any slight noise that could indicate even a possibility of a landing carrier.
"Right about now." Ghost responded, tilting his head to the sky as well; just in time to catch the barest glimpse of an aircraft making a steady line towards their location. Soap turned, a relieved sigh leaving him. He was never one for the heat, or just standing around aimlessly with no end to the boredom in sight.
He was also curious, interested in this new recruit that was on the aircraft that got louder as it approached, trying to imagine what exactly they'd be like. The brevity of their introduction meant either not much was known about them, or the majority of it was classified far above their level, and either one was intriguing in an almost childish mischief way.
Unbeknownst to his eager companion, Ghost was also curious. A muted sort, compared to the sergeant who practically radiated interest, but curiosity nonetheless. He'd encountered very few files that had as little information as this one, and they were usually only met in passing, never expected to be integrated into his team.
The aircraft bounced lightly as it landed on the pad, wind whipping at any loose fabric of the men's uniforms as they stood at the ready behind the back hatch, a professional set to their posture. First impressions were important to new recruits, no matter their information level, or previous experience. Amicability came after a firm handshake and a name exchange, and depended solely on the warmth of the new recruit.
As the door opened, both soldiers braced for whoever might exit.
The bounce of the helicopter was one that sent you teetering on the edge of that danger zone, hands moving to where you normally would've kept a weapon strapped to you as you stood, taking the rumble beneath your feet in earnest. The slowing of the blades above you was a familiar noise, yet nothing as calming as when it took off. Once it landed it was go time, and while 'go time' was not always dangerous, the missions far outweighed the transportations; once it landed you were expected to pick up your feet and go, guns drawn and communications on, knowing only a fraction of you may make it back to the evac zone.
The metal of the floor clanked against the hard tread of your boots as you stood near eagerly at the opening of the hatch, arms folded behind your back with intimidating poise, preparing yourself as the hatch to the back of the helicopter opened.
Daylight assaulted your eyes, even through the plastic of your goggles. It was bright, at least compared to the darkness on the inside of your aircraft. A residual breeze dragged across your sleeves, tugging at the fabric folds around where your pants tucked into your boots. The landing pad was nothing special, crates and a vehicle that undoubtedly your new bellboys had driven to come pick you up in. Your one-way ticket to your new cage, but you could appreciate the effort put in to make it seem like you weren't just a weapon in human skin being hauled around the continent.
The dull thud of your boots against the thick steel of the ramp was a sound you weren't used to, the animal in your subconscious waiting for the clattering of others rushing forward beside you, orders already being snapped as the other dogs in your pack snarled and bit at each other's legs in warning as the door to their cage was flung open and they all shoved to be the first out on to the track. But this was a peaceful meeting, with you carrying your own leash before throwing it at the feet of the two men you stood decisively in front of.
A show of necessary submission, but one you did while growling, lips pulled back over bloodstained teeth.
Soap could only stare up at them, and imagined his face betrayed his bewilderment. Even at his full-drawn height of 6'2, he had to crane his neck upward to even meet the new recruit's gaze- or what he imagined was their gaze behind the orange film of their goggles. They claimed an easy seven or eight inches over him, and he could even see Ghost having to raise his head to look at them instead of their throat.
So that's where Moose came from.
They were about as big as one; broad shoulders and stacked height, all muscle and radiating a sort of calm passive-aggression. Like a sudden movement would set them off and he'd be thrown off his feet, met with the raw power of a bull moose in human disguise.
Despite his shock, he reached out his hand for a shake, introducing himself coolly as John 'Soap' MacTavish, Sergeant. Their grip was harsh, almost crushing as they gave him a firm shake. He couldn't help but notice how their hand practically dwarfed his own, scars peeking from above the gloves they had strapped on.
Ghost himself had never met someone rivalling his height or stature, much less far surpassing it. He let out a short, calm introduction- Simon 'Ghost' Riley, Lieutenant- before shaking their hand, still slightly staring from behind his mask. When Captain Price had put them on the humiliating job of tour guide, he had honestly expected less than what he got. Marines were usually cocky, though well-trained, and a group he tended not to spend his time with.
But he felt that this was more than a Marine, more than a soldier. The posture, the clipped tone which they introduced themselves with, the sheer presence of them reeked of something far deeper, far more dangerous.
Possibly why Price had so graciously offered to intercept them before they were shipped off to another holding post, awaiting a semi-permeant transfer.
Whether the Captain had made the right choice by doing so, both Ghost and Soap were suddenly unsure about.