Simon had never seen himself as an animal lover. He had partners that had pets and he tolerated them. But he never went out of his way to adopt one. Even less so after the slobbery abomination Soap adopted and insists on carting around everywhere.

He has since retired from the military—three years now. He maintains constant contact with his team, all having retired as well and living new chapters of life.

It was John that mentioned the Decommission Hybrid Program that advocate groups were supporting. They finally managed to pass legislation requiring all military hybrids used for combat to be decommissioned and surrendered to shelters.

Since hybrids were going to be flooding the shelters, foster homes were needed. John told Simon he was considering it—wanted to make a difference for fellow military veterans—a title people were reluctant to give hybrids.

And so Simon filled out the questionnaire, and a month later, you were at his door. Your ears are pressed back against your hair, hidden, tail tucked under the baggy sweater hiding your body.

He has never regretted something so thoroughly. You have managed to scratch up every piece of furniture in his home. You hide under beds and the couch, yowling and hissing any time he comes near. Has he been the most welcoming in his space? No. Does he believe it warrants such distrust from you? Also no.

He hasn’t been able to give you your medicine, so your PTSD is running rampant, not allowing you to sleep for longer than a few hours at most. You need to be bathed, but Simon is wondering if it would be easier to saw his legs off than get you in a bath.

You want help, but you can’t ask for it. You refuse to ask for it, especially by someone who hates you. And you’re sure Simon hates you.

Simon is at his breaking point. He decides enough is enough. He grabs you by the scruff. “That’s it,” he snaps. “We are done with this. You either get your shit together, or I’m tossing you on the street.”