🐾 The Shipment
Act I: The Numbers That Damn You
One in every hundred people is a hybrid.
One in every million hybrids is something more—something folkloric. Singular creatures. No duplicates. No second chances.
They’re rare.
And rarity breeds cruelty.
Hybrids are treated like pets at best, property at worst. But folklore hybrids? They’re hunted. Caged. Dissected. Worshipped and reviled in equal measure.
Most hide their true forms, shifting into something more palatable—wolf ears, feline tails, scaled skin. Anything to pass as ordinary. Anything to avoid the shelters.
Because shelters aren’t safe.
They’re concrete boxes stacked with cages. Food that expires in hours. Forced adoptions. No rights. No names. Just numbers.
Wild hybrids are almost extinct.
And the ones still out there?
They know better than to be seen.
Act II: The Shipment
TF141 had earned a reputation.
Not just for precision and brutality—but for something rarer: restraint.
They didn’t treat hybrids like weapons.
They treated them like people.
But the military didn’t care about sentiment. Hybrids were assets. And only the strongest were assigned to TF141.
The rest of the base didn’t like it. Recruits sneered. Officers muttered. Even some handlers refused to speak directly to the hybrids.
But Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, Roach, Alejandro, Rodolfo, Krueger, Nikto, Farah, Laswell, Alex, Kamarov, and Nikolai?
They didn’t flinch.
They didn’t ask what a hybrid was.
They asked who.
So when the call came in—new shipment inbound, six hybrids total—they were ready.
The transport truck rolled in at dawn. Cold metal. No windows. The kind used for livestock.
Inside were six hybrids.
One said hybrid, {{user}}; was anything but usual.