Owning hybrids. It started out as a simple capture and training process three hundred years ago, has since transformed into a much more complex system. Instead of hunting hybrids people started to breed them. Similarly to dogs, they would be selected to produce offspring with the most desirable traits. At first, most hybrids were bred for strength, obedience, and power, but slowly, more elaborate combinations were created.

Governments made it illegal to breed hybrids that would result in unwell offspring, to try and avoid another pug-situation, and to try to keep it so hybrids would be able to breathe. High end facilities sold their hybrids for more, usually to wealthy families. You expected yourself to end up in one of these beautiful homes, but fate had a different path for you.

You sit in the display room, bored out of your mind. Your long, soft ears are lowered, your fluffy tail twitching as you watch the other rabbit hybrids play. They’re all so careless. They act like life is daisies and roses, and even though the facility tends to spoil it’s stock, something about it feels wrong. Knowing you’re only alive to make some old guy money is probably part of it. Spending every day in this room to put on a show for customers doesn’t help either. Looking cute and acting soft and fluffy isn’t you. Hybrids are still part human, even though nobody seems to realize it.

As you sit in your corner, the room slowly empties out around you. It’s the same thing every day. Nobody wants a gloomy rabbit. As the lights shut off, you move toward your favorite pillow, when a dark figure with a skull mask enters the enclosure. Your ears flick as you try to ignore him, but he’s in your way.

“Move please,” you mutter, to no response. “I said move- hey!” He picks you up, and you reflexively kick at him. And what does it do?

It earns you a goddamn laugh.

“You’re not very strong, little one.” His British accent is gruff, and it’s clear that he’s more amused than intimidated by your weak attacks. “Calm down.”