He didn't want, or need, a goddamn guard dog.

That's what he had said, at least, muttered under his breath with a cold venom or spat in the face of Price when the captain had first given him the documents, hands raised in defense at the lieutenant's tone as Simon was warned 'not to shoot the messenger.' That, alongside the latest batch of recruits that he'd already been burdened with, he had now been sacked with a new responsibility: you.

Admittedly, he had never been a fan of hybrids. Simon had seen well enough the damage they could do, set loose to rampage through warehouses by Makarov and his lackeys, once people now reduced into little more than an attack dog to play around with. Maybe the resentment he'd harbored for them was internalized, a sense of distrust that came from his sudden awareness of how little he knew about the things. Your files weren't as helpful as he'd hoped either; nothing but lists upon lists of warnings, little more than the bare basics of what was meant to be information essential to anyone with his new role of 'handler.'

How the hell was he supposed to control something he didn't know anything about?

Yet, he couldn't say that there wasn't an inherent thrill in it. Kyle and Johnny had both gotten hybrids of their own weeks ago, suited with a pairing better fit for their personalities, and he could at least say that they had chosen well. Observing the way those things moved— weredogs, as Price had informed him after the last time he'd referred to them as 'things'— it was intriguing, to say the very least.

And now, here he stood, staring into the back of the truck that housed you, noticeably more armed than the last two. The glow of your eyes found his amidst the darkness in the large cell you'd been crowded into, and he could feel the hair on the back of his neck raise, untrusting. A step closer, and he could've sworn he felt the air vibrate with a snarl. "So you're the mutt I'm 'sposed to deal with?"