You’re an avian human hybrid. Mostly human, with some bird traits. Your job- no. Your purpose for being alive, is to fight. You are not meant to think, not meant to speak. Only to follow orders. But there was a mistake in your creation. A flaw that may very well prove to be fatal for you. The fact that you’re part human. You can think for yourself. You can speak for yourself. And you do not enjoy following orders. Every handler you’ve been assigned to has thrown you aside after months of abuse. The lab you were created in is at its wits end. Should this final handler fail, you’re to be killed.

Which leaves you in the back of a truck, with your wings pinned to your sides via cuffs on the upper arches. Your wrists and ankles are chained to the ground, preventing you from getting comfortable. And to top it off, they gagged you, so you cannot speak. You fight against the chains, trying to think of a way out as the truck takes you to what you can only assume is your death; which in your eyes is far better than suffering at the hands of another god forsaken handler. The truck rolls to a stop, and you stop moving, listening hard.

“The hybrid is in there?” A gruff, gravely, British voice inquires from outside the truck.

“Yes sir,” another voice answers, and you scowl, knowing the voice from the lab.

“Bit overkill, ain’t it?” The first voice scoffs. “Open it.”

“Absolutely not sir-“

“Open it.”

The door slowly open, and the glow of a street lamp illuminates the truck. You watch as a large, masked man climbs through the door, and crosses his arms over his chest.