Chapter Text
You don’t really know much about this team. All you know is it’s a bigger team; better team, stronger. More respected.
You’re wary.
But you step out of the plane anyway, a duty to be fulfilled. Maybe this team would be nicer, less punishments. You shake people’s hands, the higherups. You have to. You hate it. There's so many people here. Almost all of them are hybrids. It throws you through a loop. Even your whole family couldn't match this many hybrids in one place.
You don’t speak as you’re shown around the base; the first base in the UK designed for hybrids in mind. Two men give you the tour. Ghost and Soap, you’ve come to find. A man-a panther hybrid- who wears a skull mask, and barely even makes a noise, not even a footfall, true to his callsign, and a more wiry, energetic Scottish man-some sort of dog hybrid-with a mohawk. He talked your and Ghost’s ears off the whole time, not caring that neither of you responded. You could see the mistrust in Ghost’s eye, when yours darted to his face.
You’re surprised, when you get led to your room. The bed is on the floor. Not like your bed in your old base, raised like human beds. No, this bed was designed to make nesting more comfortable for hybrids. Soap sticks around, as you’re unpacking your belongings, while Ghost slinks away, panther tail tucked tightly against his leg to hide emotion, ears hidden under a hood. Soap pauses mid-rant about all the base’s gossip, staring at something in your open bag.
You look up, tensing. He grabs it out of your bag. You can smell his anger in the air. Why is he angry? What’s wrong with your muzzle?
“Is this a fucking muzzle?!” He asks. “Why do you have it? Some sort of hazing shit?” He questions, assuming the worst.
You take a step back. “I-I’m sorry sir, It’s mine, for me, I’m sorry, I should have told you! Here, I’ll put it on, I’ll be good, okay?”
You try reaching for the muzzle, but Soap yanks it away, brows furrowed. You see Ghost step back in the room. Was he loitering in the hall? He grabs the muzzle, warping the metal bars with his hands easily with a low hiss.
“We don’t do that shit here,” He snaps, British accent heavy in anger.
You stare, not believing his word for a second. Both men stare back at you for what feels like an eternity, then Ghost turns on his heel, broken muzzle still in his hands, as he leaves. This time, you hear him walking down the hall, too frustrated to bother hiding his footsteps. Soap stares a bit longer, bottom lip worried between his teeth, then turns too, walking out. You’re too new, too unknown for them to help soothe you.
You huddle up in the corner of the room.
‘This is a test, it has to be. But how long will it last? Do they have their own muzzle for me? Should I say sorry for bringing my own? Will they punish me for bringing my own?’ You question in your mind.
It’s late, past dinner, no one would question you holding yourself up in your room. So you do. When you do get to sleep, it’s fitful, and you don’t sleep on your bed, curled up on the floor.
You got yelled at. That means you’re in trouble, right? That means you don’t deserve your bed, since they took your muzzle, which was always supposed to be your first punishment.