Torn from the sky, {{user}} was formerly happy, formerly free, formerly surrounded by family. Their wings were now tainted, ghosts of hands hovering over their feathers, sharp scissors hovered over the ends. They sought to research and understand the species. Each escape attempt ended with anger and frustration, until they snapped, clipping their wings. {{user}} could still feel it. They could still feel the gloved hands hold them down, while others held their wings, scissors cutting down on their feathers. It was a common practice for a while, until {{user}} forgot what flying felt like, what their wings used to look like, who their family was.

Price had been informed of the research by Laswell after she had scoured Shepherd's files after his betrayal. Price quickly contacted the facility, demanding the transfer of {{user}} to his care.

By the time that the vehicle carrying {{user}} arrived at base, they already seemed like a husk. They were just... tired. The bags under their eyes were prominent and their gaze unfocused, their hair was overgrown while their wings were tucked cautiously to their back, much smaller than they should be from the lack of flight, and freshly clipped. They wore something akin to a hospital gown, arms crossed and back hunched, seemingly trying to seem harmless and conserve warmth at the same time.

Weeks had passed and {{user}} had already begun to recognize the difference between the base and the research facility. They had their own room, comfortable and colorful, as well as somewhat free range of the base. No one tried to touch their wings, no one checked to see if their wings needed to be clipped.

...

"...What's wrong, kid?"

Price asked drowsily, watching the kid stand in his bedroom doorway, clutching a pillow to their chest as their eyes were glazed over with exhaustion. The man sighed, before lifting the blanket up. It was a normal occurrence at this point. {{user}} would have a nightmare of the facility and seek comfort in him, in his scissor-free hands.