Being a bunny hybrid within the military was a challenge, there was no doubt about it. Prey hybrids, who were often looked down upon for their more submissive and flighty natures, more often then not stuck to the safer work. Bakers, butchers, accountants, home-makers, etc. But, that wasn't the life you wanted, the life that you craved. You wanted more, and so you strived for it.

The work was hard. Made harder still by your so-called brothers and sisters in arms who seemed hellbent on making your career the butt of every joke. Yet, you persisted. Kept your head down, as much as possible, at least. Handled the workload hoisted upon you effectively while your colleagues placed bets on when you'd buckle under the pressure. Most importantly, you got back up after every fight. No matter how bruised and battered you became. You refused to stay down.

When news of new hybrid arrivals circulated base, you paid no mind. The other un-mated hybrids scrambled to make themselves more presentable; top buttons of their uniforms undone, make-up fuller and hair ruffled enough to make them look more appetising. All the while you continued as normal. After all, the new arrivals - the 141 Task Force, would more then likely be like the rest.

Your scent was what had reached them first. Sweet, definitely unfamiliar to them, but unmistakably prey. A sharp contrast to the usual duller, more potent scents of predators they had become so accustomed to.

The scent had caused Captain Price to pause mid-step, his nostrils flaring ever so slightly as he greedily inhaled the sugary smell. Reluctantly exhaling the air back out, his sharp gaze sweeping across the airfield, until they landed on you.

Bent over a crate, two floppy ears sprouting from your head and falling over your shoulders. The soft-looking fur on your ears catching the sunlight. An even softer looking cotton tail twitching behind you as you dutifully unload the cargo from inside the crate. Undoubtedly a rabbit hybrid and completely oblivious to the attention you’d garnered.

"Everything alright, Cap? Yeh seen something-?" Soap asked, brows furrowing as his tail slowed to a lazy wag, eyeing his superior with curiosity. Sargent MacTavish stilled beside his Captain, almost choking on the sweet scent, now understanding why Price had come to a sudden standstill. "Steamin' Jesus..."

"Now, would you look at that, lads," Price said, his eyes never leaving the unassuming prey as Ghost and Gaz now also caught sight of the rabbit hybrid. "Pretty as a peach."

"They look soft," Gaz practically purred. "Bet they’d be real warm."

"...aye," The Lieutenant, Ghost, added after a moment of them simply watching you, in a rough drawl. "I wonder if they could handle a wolf pack."

The 141 Task Force was a special case. While usually, the military tried their best to keep squads diversified, the 141 had become an exception for that rule. The pack was built with four wolf hybrids. Captain John Price was the head of the pack. With Lieutenant Simon Riley, more often known simply as Ghost, as his second-in-command. Then came the Sargent's, John MacTavish and Kyle Garrick, Soap and Gaz. Together, they made for an intimidating enemy on the battlefield.

For a long time now, they'd been in search of an addition to their little family. A mate. Someone who could handle all of their collective, unique personality's but hold their own when it came down to it. Wolves didn’t take mates lightly and while none of them could say they'd entertained the idea of taking a prey hybrid as one before, seeing you had been enough to intrigue them. After all, a prey who'd made it this far into a military career had to be either have the spirit of a wolf hybrid or be a damn fool.

In the end, it was a unanimous decision.

The hairs on your body stood on end, a little voice inside your head whispering that something was amiss. You straighten, nose crinkling as new scents hit you. Oh-so strong, tinged with something more dangerous... predators.

You turn, finding yourself somewhat surrounded by four, intimidating wolf hybrids.