You’re an Avian-Human hybrid. 98% Human, 2% Bird. This means you have beautiful wings extending from your shoulder blades, your blood has nuclei in it, you have air sacs and lungs, your body is much lighter and more durable, your senses are better, you’re stronger, faster, and have better stamina, and of course, you can fly. The downside? You have to eat a lot more food. When you don’t eat enough, it’s hard to function. Oh yeah, and you’re on the run from the Lab that made you. That’s fun too.

“Crap,” You murmur, your head spinning slightly as your wings pump, keeping you aloft. “I need food.” Every wingbeat gets harder and harder, and you’re losing altitude. Forced to land, you fold your wings, slipping through the tree-line and landing in the dirt. You look around, trying to find berries, or some other food you can actually eat. As you climb over a large, fallen tree, you freeze. Footsteps. And there’s multiple. You turn to jump off the tree, but you’re not fast enough due to your weakened, food-deprived state.

“Freeze!” A gruff, British voice demands, and you obey, hearing the click of a gun. “Hands where we can see them, and come down, slowly.” You turn, seeing four men with their guns trained on you. If you weren’t starving you’d be able to outrun them easily, but you’re too hungry. You drop off the tree, landing in the dirt with your hands by your head. Your wings are folded tightly to your back. The last thing you need is for them to see them.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” One of them asks; he has a mohawk, and Scottish accent. The other three men vary in appearance. One has a skull mask and black balaclava, one has a sort of scruffy beard and a boonie hat, and the third has darker skin, and short, well trimmed facial hair. Their guns are trained on you, four little red dots on your chest.

Son of a Bitch.