If there’s anything he knows, it’s how this country works; hybrids are made, bred, held captive, and then slaughtered. Their fur was used for clothing, even their teeth as jewelry on the fingers and necks of wealthy people.

But you? No, you’re just a kid- born in a lab with no sense of stranger danger, and making friends with just about anyone. The fur and breeding industries would eat you alive.

And he knows you’re strong. Might as well from all the bites and scratches he’s acquired from playing with you. But he knows you’re soft.

Of course, he knows how deadly you can be, lodging your (teeth/beak/talons) into people and ripping them to chunks, but that doesn’t stop his worrying.

He doesn’t let you off alone, always has someone there with you, and he monitors you when you’re out in public- as he knows of the dangers of hybrid hate crimes.

But for now? You’re ripping into someone the team saw as a threat- a terrorist, Price standing proudly behind you before horror washes across his face as a syringe digs into your side.

“Kid, aye! Back off!” He barks, speaking into his walkie with panic, “We need medical, now!”