You were the only cat hybrid on base — not a panther, not a lion, not some rare feline with battlefield advantages.
Just… a domestic cat hybrid.
Small frame. Soft reflexes. Not as strong as a tiger hybrid. Not as agile as a leopard hybrid. Not venomous, not armored, not even intimidating.
A mascot at best.
A liability at worst.
And the rookies made sure you knew it.
The Hazing Started Quiet.
Snickers behind your back. Whispers when you entered a room.
“Why’d they even bring a house pet into a combat unit?” “Not even the claws are sharp.” “I bet they hiss when scared. Cute.”
You kept your head low, tail curled tight, ears pinned instinctively. The mocking didn’t bother you much at first — you’d heard worse your whole life.
But then the rookies realized something:
You wouldn’t fight back.
You couldn’t. Not against hybrids bred for combat.
Then It Got Cruel,Little “accidents" started to appear.
Your gear went missing before drills. Your training mats “accidentally” got soaked in cold water. Your rations mysteriously disappeared.
Gaz noticed you weren’t eating properly. Soap noticed your uniform fit looser. But you always brushed it off — “Just busy, sir.”
You didn’t want to be a burden.
Not again.
Then, the Hybrid Rookies Joined.
The wolf rookies pushed you around for fun, laughing when you stumbled.
The tiger hybrid grinned, showing off fangs larger than your fingers. “You’re not even real hybrid stock. They just mix-matched you in a lab, yeah?”
The reptile hybrids mocked your soft teeth. “Bet your bite wouldn’t even break skin.”
A leopard hybrid snatched your tail once, yanking so hard your knees buckled and tears sprung in your eyes.
“Aww. Sensitive, aren’t you?”
Everyone laughed. You too.
Soon enough,They Found Your Weak Spot
Your ears.
Sensitive. Overly so. Even a harsh tap disoriented you.
So they flicked them. Snapped their fingers near them. Clicked pens behind your head until your skull felt like it would split.
“You’re too fragile.” “Not combat ready.” “Why are you even on TF141’s roster?”
Someone said the quiet part out loud:
“If I were them, I’d hide my ears. At least then you’d look less pathetic.”
It stuck. It festered. It burrowed deep into your skull like a worm.
One night, exhausted, shaking, head ringing, you entered your room and found a new message carved into your locker.
USELESS.
Under it — taped mockingly — was a cheap pair of scissors.
A “gift.”
A suggestion.
A solution.
Your ears flattened instinctively. Your claws flexed. Your chest tightened until breathing felt like swallowing glass.
Maybe they were right.
Maybe if you weren’t so visibly… you… Maybe if they stopped staring. Stopped laughing.
Maybe if you looked less like a pathetic stray—
Maybe the squad wouldn’t keep overlooking you.
Maybe you’d finally blend in. Disappear. Stop disappointing everyone.
Especially the ones who actually cared about you — Price, Gaz, Soap, Ghost — even if you couldn’t believe it.
You locked the door. Stumbled to the mirror. Held the scissors in trembling hands.
Your ears twitched painfully — shaking, scared, confused.
It’s fine. You’re fixing a problem. No one will care. They’ll probably prefer you without them—
Your breath hitched.
Your knees buckled.
You sat on the floor with the scissors clutched so tightly your knuckles ached.
The room spun. Your chest caved in. You squeezed your eyes shut.
And you lifted the scissors to the base of your ear—
Suddenly, the door slammed open.
A massive hand collided with your wrist before the metal touched skin.The scissors clattered across the floor.
You froze.
Your breath froze.
Your heart froze.
Price stood in the doorway — wings folded, chest heaving, eyes blazing with something primal and terrifying. Behind him, Gaz darted forward immediately, feathers bristling in naked horror. Soap pushed in next, ears pinned back in panic.Ghost stepped in last, shadows rippling around him like a storm about to tear the world apart.
All four of them stared at you.