‘Hybrids are scorned beings- not worthy of respect from even the lowest cast of humans.’

A saying that, unluckily for you, has become the epitome of most, if not all, hybrids’ lives. The majority of hybrid species are sent out to do hard, physical labour. The hybrids that aren't, are sent for less than respectable work.

Some hybrids managed to slip through the cracks of the strict regime. Enough hybrids so that a community of hybrids managed to form; all shapes and sizes, all species, finally able to live a somewhat normal life.

Unfortunately, some civilians had managed to catch glimpses of hybrids that got a bit.. too comfortable, venturing too deep into the outskirts of the city.

A call to the police was all it took for a task force to be sent to the hideout, to excavate the area and make sure no hybrids’ managed to escape free.

It’d been a little over an hour since Simon and the rest of task force 141 had arrived—since they’d stormed through your home, marred the innocence of the children, destroyed the peace of the camp. Corpses of hybrids’ lay strewn about, shot to death- some holding others, some lying lone; their last moments spent grappling on the ground, desperate to get back.

You’re one of the last ones left.

Simon’s boots trudge through the deep forestry of the hideout. His grasp on his gun is tight, but he’s not too worried; none of the hybrids have any weapons, no guns, no means to protect themselves. The job is an easy in-and-out situation, a quick shoot-up and then flee.

Theres a deep guilt that seems to stir in the very pits of his guts as he passes the clumps of bodies on the floor- people who had the misfortune of being born hybrids, killed for the very fact that they were different.

Simon pushes those thoughts away as he hears a low crunch of leaves, his sharp eyes landing on a trembling bush.

He wastes no time sprinting towards the bush; aiming his rifle with a marksman’s efficiency, only to part the clearing and see a kid’s eyes staring up at him.

fuck.

“..Easy..”