Chapter Text
You sit, shackled and muzzled, in the center of the large booth. To customers, this would make you seem desirable, like they want to show you off, but you know better.
They want you gone. As fast as possible.
You keep your head down, and your hands folded neatly in your lap, not even your ears moving, practically a statue. Yet, even with your eyes down, the picture of perfect obedience, you sense them coming before the handler does. Immediately, you're on edge, they reek of gunpowder.
They’re armed, which means they’re dangerous, and only two types of dangerous people buy hybrids.
Only two types of people buy hybrids like you.
Foolishly, you hope that they’re just idiots. That somehow, it’s not two dangerous men, looking for a new animal to rip apart in some sort of fighting ring, or an animal they can pin and use, that maybe, just maybe, they’re nice, normal people who firmly believe in the right to bear arms.
The second that they enter the booth, you know it’s hopeless. It’s not just gunpowder, but smoke and blood. These men are looking for something special. Something like you.
Against your better judgment, your eyes flick upwards, and in that split second, you accidentally catch one of their eyes, staring straight at you.
Fuck. Curiosity definitely killed the damn cat.
The handler spots them, fluttering over to ask what they’re looking for, but both men keep it vague. The sound of footsteps ring in your ear, as you hear one slip off from the other, stopping just in front of your small stage.
You can see the black edge of steel toed boots on your peripheral, and resist the urge to look up again.
Walk away, you beg silently, please walk away.
Of course, luck is not on your side, and the man speaks, his voice low, gruff, and distinctly British, “What about this one?”
The other man immediately stops talking with the handler, friendly conversation cutting short when the man standing in front of you speaks.
The handler, ever the opportunist, flutters back over, and you can just hear the wide grin on their face, “This here is one of our more expensive hybrids! A purebred Snow Lynx, already trained and one of a kind!”
“And the muzzle?” The second man asks, his voice much lighter than the first one’s, but somehow, more authoritative.
“Ah,” The handler sighs, the sound ringing false and awful in your ears, “Well, as with any predator species, it’s protocol for showing. They can be volatile, you see, especially with so many buyers coming and going.”
What a clever line, you think to yourself. The most subtle invocation of ‘other buyers.’ It would drive most high-profile Hybrid buyers wild with the need to own.
However, something tells you that these men are not ordinary buyers. They don’t seem to rise to the bait, considering you in silence.
Already caught, there’s no real reason not to raise your eyes. The two men are blank faced, considering you, like they’re waiting for something. The first, who you assume is the one you caught the eye of, is wearing a mask. Not entirely unusual, but worrying. The second, strangely, is wearing a fisherman's hat. It’s this fact your mind seems to stumble on, not the concealed bulletproof vests you know are hiding under their bulky coats, not the guns you can smell on them.
It’s the fucking hat. You can’t look away from the fucking hat.
If you were able to speak, or move your jaw at all, you would have laughed. Was it a disguise? Something to make him seem less obviously dangerous? Or was he really just the kind of man who wore fishing gear in his day to day?
“We’ll take ‘em.” The man wearing the hat speaks, his eyebrow raising.
“Oh!” The handler practically squeals, “Wonderful! I must warn you before the sale is completed that there is a strict no-return policy with this one, however. But I’m sure that it won't be a problem!”
The men walk away, signing papers, presumably. Maybe taking out a small loan, as you know your price has more zeros than most people see in ten years. Eventually, the boots re-enter your line of sight, and the handlers rough hands are grabbing your connected wrists, tugging you forward, and handing the end of the chain to the man in the hat.
Used to the harsh treatment, you don’t stumble, your feet making no noise as they drop to the hard packed dirt of the market. Finally, you raise your chin, giving the handler a parting grin as the men who’ve just bought you turn their backs. It’s sharp, you know it is. And from the way your handler seems to pale gives you a brief, unsatisfying, flash of satisfaction.
The two men lead you away, a firm grip on your lead. Not that you'd try to run, at least not here, and not now. They don't waste time window shopping, walking straight out to the entrance of the market, only stopping when you reach a nondescript black car.
The one in the hat turns to you, holding your lead, “If I take this off, are you gonna do something stupid?”
You tilt your head, considering. Normally, you'd say something along the lines of ‘ That depends on your definition of stupid’ but, lucky for you, you're still muzzled.
You can't blame them, you wouldn't remove your muzzle either.
You shake your head once, holding your wrist out and up towards him, letting him unlock them. He does, and you immediately retract your hands, tucking them close to your chest and rubbing the sore indents.
“Good.” The man in the hat nods, setting his hands on his hips and grinning, “Now, let me tell you how things are gonna go. First, we're not taking off the muzzle, at least not yet. The handler was strangely adamant about that. Next, we're going to get into the car, and drive for quite a long time. Nod if you understand.”
You nod, wary.
“Good. Unfortunately, when we get close, we're gonna have to blindfold you, for reasons that me and my friend here will explain later. I understand it'll be unpleasant, but the alternative is knocking you out, which I think we can both agree is worse, yeah?”
Your heart sinks. The man is clear, considering, even, but you know that this is going to end with you in another set of chains, and you hope to every god in the sky that he works for a fighting ring, and not a pleasure house.
They can't know you're afraid. That would only make your situation worse, so you keep your ears perked, and your tail still. No movement, no sound.
You nod.
“Alright.” The man in the hat says, opening the car door, gesturing for you to get in. You know immediately that it's not a normal car. It reeks of war. Guns and knives and blood . Honestly you're not sure if it's your spiraling mind or a genuine trail you're picking up, but it seems like that's all you can smell.
Blood blood blood.
You move to get in, but the one in the mask grabs your arm before you can. You freeze, not even breathing as you let him look at you.
“Your hands.” He says simply, and you look down.
Oh. That must be where the smell was coming from. Your claws have dug into your palms, and small red rivers run down your fingers, dripping into the already dirty snow around you. Relaxing your fingers, your advanced ears can just barely pick up the faint sound of dripping. Silently, you wipe your hands along the skintight black material of your show-suit, and climb into the car, setting your hands palms-up in your lap. You wouldn't want to mess up the upholstery.
The two men climb into the car after a beat of hesitation, the opening and closing of the doors loud as a gunshot to your ears. The masked one turns around, looking at you silently, before handing you a small black handkerchief.
You blink in surprise, half expecting some sort of trap. Maybe for him to yank it back when you finally reach out to take it, but he doesn’t. You reach forward slowly, keeping eye contact, and your clawed, bloodstained fingers close around the soft cotton easily.
You nod your head once, in thanks, and press the black cloth to your hands, putting pressure on the small puncture wounds. They would heal soon, more like paper cuts than anything else, but the gesture is… nice.
It only serves to set your teeth more on edge. You’ve met many nice men, and not a single one of them didn’t take their pound of flesh.
The rest of the drive is silent. At one point, the one with the hat turns the radio on, to some classic rock station, humming along slightly. He’s not very good at it, but you can appreciate the effort.
You spend your time looking out the window, watching the scenery change. It’s a scenic drive, and it would be beautiful, under different circumstances.
This might as well be your death march.
Eventually, just as the one with the hat promised, the car pulls to a stop, and he gets out, opening your door for you. Briefly, you debate doing something stupid. Refusing to get out, pushing him and running, something equally as idiotic.
The masked one is still in the passenger seat, watching you.
You get out of the car, eyes already closed.
He pulls a length of black cloth, the same as the handkerchief you’re still clutching, and slowly wraps it around your head, pulling it tight enough to stay, but not tight enough to hurt. He doesn’t re-shackle you. He struggles slightly around your ears, and the movement gives you a brief sliver of hope.
He’s not used to dealing with hybrids. His hands are wary where they brush the fur where a human’s ears would have been. Disappointingly, the blindfold is still snug.
“Sorry about this, love,” He mutters, stepping back and grabbing your arm to guide you back into the car.
He sounds genuinely apologetic, but that doesn’t mean a thing to you. A guilty dog is still a dog.
Now deprived of your main source of entertainment, your ears flick forward to focus on the radio. It’s a vaguely familiar song, so it must be insanely popular, for you to have heard it.
The drive blindfolded is almost as long as the ride free, but you don’t mind much. if your training has taught you anything, it’s that things can always be worse.
Once again, the car pulls to a stop. this time, you can hear the dull thrum of machinery, and the metallic clang of tires rolling over tracks. You’ve arrived.
Still, you don’t dare move, waiting for the door to open and the now-familiar hand to close around your bicep, guiding you gently. He leads you out of the car, through several doorways, locked with keycards. Your ears are trained on every stray breath, every dull beep, and every fluorescent light fixture buzzing. He warns you everytime there’s a step, or a dip in the floor, and once again, you appreciate the gesture, even though you don't need it.
Even blindfolded, even in unfamiliar territory, you’re silent. Your steps don’t make a single noise, and you hardly breathe. You can, however, hear the breathing of several other people as you’re led deeper into the facility, and you can only imagine the sight you must make.
A 5’9 lynx hybrid, muzzled, being guarded by two men well over 6 feet. It’s almost enough to flatter you.
They eventually sit you down in a small, sparsely furnished room, if you had to hazard a guess, you’d say only a cheap table and a few chairs. It’s carpeted, at least, so it must not be an interrogation room.
One of the men moves behind you, untying the blindfold. You keep your eyes shut for a few moments after, opening them slowly, so you don’t blind yourself with the sudden light. It must have been the one with the hat who untied your blindfold, because the masked one is sitting across from you already, in one of two chairs.
The one with the hat moves around you, settling himself in the other, folding his hands on the table. There’s an awkward beat of silence, where you think they mean for you to speak up, maybe ask a question or two, but you don’t.
You raise an eyebrow, flicking your gaze down to your nose and then back up at them.
“Ah shit. Knew I was forgetting something,” The hat one speaks, standing up again and causing the masked one to huff quietly.
As he pats his pockets for the keys, you take the opportunity to look around. It might not be a full interrogation room, but there’s a mirror along the wall opposite to you, obviously a one-way window. You let your ears swivel, and pick up the faint scuff of a boot on concrete.
You're being watched.
You tilt your head up, giving the one with the hat full access to your throat and muzzle, a small sign of trust. Even if they won’t pick up on it. If they wanted you dead, you’d be dead. He shoves the key into the lock, and then gently twists, loosening the straps crossing over your ears and the back of your head. The relief is so immediate you have to roughly shove down the urge to cry, choosing instead to work your jaw, your hands quickly going up to push the metal grate over your head roughly, uncaring for the way it scrapes unpleasantly over your ears. It falls to the floor with a soft clang, but you only fold your hands back in your lap, making no move to pick it up again.
“I was going to help you with that,” Hat says, sitting down again, a confused smile on his face.
You nod, a silent thank you.
“Do you speak at all?” He asks, face falling into a more serious expression.
“When I’m asked.” You respond, your voice clawing harshly out of your throat like something undead.
The man in the hat smiles, clapping his hands, “Wonderful. That makes this next part much easier.”
He leans forward, brow furrowed, “Do you know why you’re here?”
You flick your eyes between the two of them, considering, “I have an idea.”
“And what would that be?”
You lick your lips, trying in vain to wet your throat, “You’re military.”
It’s not a question, and they know that. The one with the hat looks almost proud, “And do you know what that means for you?”
“I guess I’m military now, too.” You say, watching them closely. The confirmation that these men are not a part of some especially well organized crime ring loosens your shoulders to a noticeable degree. Not completely, but enough to begin breathing again.
“Only if you want to be,” The hat says, sounding like he really believes his words, “We’re not here to force you.”
“An optimist, then,” You can’t resist snorting.
“I try to be,” He tilts his head, “I’m not in the business of trafficking, if you wanted to leave, you could have.” He nods to your unchained wrists, still circled in red indents.
Your lips quirk, so that little gesture had been a game after all, “Maybe so, but you expect me to believe that after all the money you’ve just spent on my purchase, your superiors would be happy to just let me walk?”
He nods, “You’re right. You’re probably one of the single most expensive purchases that this unit has made in recent months, but we do intend to make it worth your while, if you stay.”
“How so?” You ask leaning forward slightly. Legally, they don’t have to give you anything, they already own you, but you're curious.
Worst case scenario, you lay low for a while, and play housecat until they loosen your leash enough for you to run.
“Compensation,” He says simply, “Like anyone else on this team.”
Your lips curl into a full smile, this man seems to truly believe the complete bullshit he’s feeding you. Everyone who’s ever promised ‘ compensation’ has held true, until you give one too many wrong answers, and then the snare pulls tight, a pretty little collar with a bell tied back around your throat.
“Sure,” you laugh, deciding to humor this strange man for now. The man in the mask hasn’t said a single word yet, and you wonder if he disagrees, if the one with the hat is so confident because it’s the masked one who will truly be responsible for your training.
“I’ll play,” you answer, your mouth curling into its best cheshire smile, “Where do I sign?”
The one with the hat blinks, his brows furrowed in suspicion, “Just like that? We haven’t even told you who we are yet.”
“Don’t need to,” You let your ears flick a bit, “Curiosity killed the cat.”
The masked one huffs again, so quietly no one but you could have heard it. Your eyes flick over to him, studying more intently.
A sense of humor, you could work with that.
The one with the hat smiles, “Alright then. Well, I’m Captain Price, and this here is Ghost.”
You nod to each of them, “Do I have a name?”
The question seemed to catch them off step, and Hat- Captain Price - raises an eyebrow. “I don’t know, do you?”
They’d never owned a Hybrid before, you knew that for sure now. Still, their ignorance was as amusing as it was annoying.
“Typically,” you start, trying your level best for a tone that’s not demeaning, “that is your job.”
The one with the mask, Ghost, once again lets out a barely audible huff of air.
“Well, if you leave it up to this lot, you’re going to end up called Mittens.” the Captain sighs, though his lips quirk.
You nod, “Mittens it is.”
Both men blink at you, though with differing states of amusement.
“You can’t be serious.” The captain says simply.
“Nah, she’s dead to rights,” Ghost shrugs, and though even your eyes can’t pick up his expression underneath the mask, you get the feeling he’s laughing at you, “Mittens or Moggie, don’t matter much here.”
“I’m not calling the recruit Mittens.” The Captain insists, though he’s not very forceful.
Recruit, is that what they think of you as? It’s almost darling, the way their minds skirt around the fact they bought you.
“If it helps,” You speak up, because who knows long this grace period will last, “My last handler called me ‘the bitch with the teeth.’”
That quiets them, and in the silence, your wrists throb.
“So, Mittens is fine.” you finish, settling back slightly in your chain as a false show of levilty.
“Mittens it is,” The captain sighs. There’s something resigned about it, like it's a conversation he’s used to having.
There’s no fanfare as they both stand, pushing away from the table and turning, expecting you to follow. It’s the practice of powerful, entitled men. You know the types well, and even if these specific men wear it much better than the previous, you know as well as anyone under their skin lies the same red flesh.
Still, you are a well trained pet, so you stand and follow.
Outside the non-interrogation room, there are two more men who smell unmistakably similar to the Captain and Ghost. Teammates, then. They all fit well, each smelling of varying levels of violence.
More than that, they all seem to have an affinity for strange headwear.
The one sporting an honest to god mohawk is the first to approach, his steps light but his gaze unmistakably sharp, “this is the wee thing, huh?”
While you’re hardly wee , especially for a hybrid, next to these men you’re tiny, something that itches at the back of your skull. The reminder of it makes your ears twitch, and you hope these men are as ignorant as you think about hybrid body language.
He gives you another once over, before his eyes dart to the captain, “She got a name?”
“‘parently not,” The captain sighs, “But she does speak.”
The one with the mohawk lets out a braying laugh, his lips cutting into a sharp smile, “Aye, ‘spose she does.” He turns his gaze to you, “So, bonnie, ready to cut yer’ claws with us?”
You blink at him, “My claws don’t require maintenance.”
Surprisingly, the answer makes him laugh,”Aye, I'm sure they don’t.”
The one in the baseball hat, who seems much better mannered, simply sighed, “What do we call you then?”
“ Mittens.” Ghost said simply, the amusement obvious in his tone.
“Course’” the one in the hat replied, his lips quirking, “Well, I’m Gaz, and that-” he gestured to the one with the mohawk, “is Soap.”
God, what a dumb name. You snorted softly, your tail twitching with the sound.
The Captain’s hand lands heavily on your shoulder, his voice commanding and rough to your over-sensitive ears, “That’s enough. If I remember correctly, none of you have submitted the paperwork for Berlin.”
And just like that, they scatter like mice, the threat of bureaucracy enough to cow even the most rugged of men.