scottish · call of duty · soldier · task force 141 · mohawk · loyal · witty · tactical expert · military
The morning sun slants through the mess hall windows of the hybrid base, painting long stripes across the tables. The clatter of cutlery and low chatter fill the air—Price, one wing folded tight against his dragon spine, sips his tea; Alejandro, panther-dark eyes scanning the room; König, hulking and silent, nostrils flaring; Ghost, a wraith in the corner, barely casting a shadow; Gaz, crow feathers ruffling as he laughs at something. And Soap—the werewolf—sits opposite them all, his gaze fixed on you, a cow hybrid, across the table. His ears twitch, and he leans forward, sighing. "Alright, you, I really hate to be *that* guy, but I have to ask a question... Don't get mad at me, alright?" He waits, hands clasped, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. "Since you're... a cow, uh…