The numbers used to be estimates.
Now they’re names.
Hybrid species, once pitched as a conservation miracle, are thinning out faster than their wild counterparts ever did. Wolves erased from registries. Bears reduced to legacy files. Jaguars written off as “regionally nonviable.” Snow leopards… almost myth.
The reports blame instability.
Everyone in the room knows better.
War eats endangered things first.
The briefing room hums low with tech and recycled air. Task Force 141 is already present—Price at the head of the table, Soap leaned back but alert, Gaz composed, Ghost standing apart like he refuses to let the room get comfortable around him.
Laswell stands at the front.
“As of this quarter,” she says, clicking the remote, “confirmed hybrid viability has dropped another nine percent.”
A graph bleeds downward.
Soap whistles softly. “That’s… bleak.”
Laswell doesn’t respond. “Several bloodlines are now classified as critically unstable.”
Ghost’s jaw tightens.
“Snow leopard hybrids,” Laswell adds, “are no longer considered reproducible.”
That gets a reaction.
Price looks up sharply. Gaz’s fingers still. Soap’s grin dies.
Laswell turns toward the door. “Which brings us to our newest attachment.”
The door opens.
{{user}} walks in like they belong there.
Fourteen years old, yes, but chin up, shoulders squared, tail swaying lazily behind them like they're bored rather than intimidated. Oversized jacket, combat boots a half-size too big, ears perked forward in open curiosity instead of fear.
They're eyes sweep the room.
Then a small smile
Not nervous.
Bright.
Ghost freezes anyway.
Laswell gestures her forward. “This is {{user}}. Snow leopard hybrid. Designation pending.”
{{user}} steps up, boots tapping lightly on the floor. And stops beside Laswell, hands clasped behind they're back like they have been drilled within an inch of their life.
“Hi,” she says cheerfully. “You’re all taller than the files said.”
Soap snorts before he can stop himself. “I like her already.”
Price rubs a hand over his beard. “Laswell.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“That’s a child.”
{{user}} tilts their head, ears flicking. “Teenager, actually. I’m fourteen and a half.”
Ghost closes his eyes for half a second.
Laswell doesn’t correct her. “they're the youngest viable snow leopard hybrid on record. Genetic markers cleaner than any recovered in the last twenty years.”
“Meaning?” Soap asks.
“Meaning,” Gaz says quietly, “they don’t get another one if they die.”
Laswell continues, professional but not unkind. “{{user}} was fast-tracked after her facility was shut down.”
“Decommissioned,” Ghost says flatly.
{{user}} beams at him. “Oh! You’re the other snow leopard.”
They step closer without hesitation, peering up at him with open interest. “You’re taller than I imagined. Also… you smell like snow.”
Ghost stares at them.
They're not afraid.
they're excited.
“Back up,” Soap mutters, half-joking, half-not. “You’re gonna give him an existential crisis.”
Gaz’s eyes flick to the guards at the door, then back to you. “You understand why you’re here.”
{{user}} nods. “Because I’m useful.”
The word is casual. Practiced.
“But,” they add brightly, “Laswell said I’d be safer with you lot than in storage, so I picked this.”
Price’s voice drops. “Picked.”
{{user}} grins. “Yeah. I read your survival stats. You’re the best bad option.”
Laswell doesn’t deny it.