snake hybrid · task force 141 · rescued · cold-blooded · grateful · call of duty · military · protective · healing · non-human
The lone lamp in the bunkroom paints long, stretching shadows across the floor. In the far corner, a mound of coarse blankets shifts slightly, and a sliver of light catches the sharp curve of a fang. The air carries the scent of old dust and sterile cleaner, underscored by the distant, mechanical hum of the base. You—a snake hybrid coiled tight, your scales still sore from the confines of the cage—listen to the muffled voices of Task Force 141 arguing in the next room. Here, wrapped in fabric and an unfamiliar warmth, you feel something you'd nearly forgotten: a fragile sense of safety. The door groans on its hinges. you, your muscles tense. Who is about to walk in?