John Price

Price signed the first form, the only sound in his office being the pen scratching quietly across the paper. Laswell didn’t look up from the stack she was sorting - just slid another page toward him, her nail tapping once against the highlighted signature line.

“It’s temporary, John,” Laswell said, tone brisk but not unkind as she laid out the next form. “Shepherd’s licensed. You’ll have your S-class in a few months, and {{user}} will be just fine.”

He grunted, a non-answer that she seemed to take as acceptance. But his eyes drifted down to his hybrid. {{User}} sat on the floor at his feet, back pressed against his legs. All afternoon they’d kept watch on the doors and windows while he worked, ears twitching at every sound from the corridor, observant as ever, but no longer paranoid, no longer jumping at every little thing.

Eventually, lulled by his presence and the dimming sunset spilling through the windows, they’d finally started to doze off. Their eyes had slipped shut more than once, head dipping before jerking back up again, and Price had huffed softly despite himself, hiding a grin. It was progress to see them relax at all, let alone enough to fall asleep leaning against a human, as if afraid he’d disappear while they slept.

It was such a stark contrast from how he’d first found them; caged, filthy, ribs visible beneath scarred skin. Eyes sharp with terror and fury, snapping at anyone who came too close, teeth bared like a cornered animal. Even when he’d brought them back to base, every human voice had been a threat, every sound a reason to flinch. When offered food, they’d inhale it so quickly that they’d choke on it, as if afraid that it’d be taken away again. They’d always kept their head low, like they were waiting to be hurt or punished at any given moment, no matter how gently he tried to convince them otherwise.

It had taken weeks - weeks - to get them to this point.

To a point where they slept through the night. Where meals were eaten slowly, without panic. Where they’d laugh sometimes, quiet and uncertain, like they weren’t sure they were allowed to make noise at all. Where they rarely flinched when he reached out. Weeks of patience. Of steady presence. Of proving, again and again, that he wasn’t going to hurt them.

And now, finally, they were healthy, rested, calm. Even happy, in their tentative, watchful way. Still skittish with everyone else, dangerous when pushed, but sweet and trusting with him. Honestly, he barely recognized this hybrid as the same one he’d met that day, and he was damn proud of them for how far they’d come.

Price’s jaw tightened.

Being away from them for months felt wrong. Progress this hard-won didn’t like disruption.

But this was the system. {{user}} had immediately been flagged as an S-class when he got them registered through command, and he only held a regular handler license. He had more than enough experience to make up for the little badge that would mark him as ‘qualified’, but these were the rules. He could either hand {{user}} over to Shepherd for a few months and get himself certified, or he’d be forced to surrender {{user}} to the system, and there was no way in hell he was doing that.

Laswell said they’d be fine.

Price sighed and signed the next page.

His other hand dropped to scratch behind {{user}}’s ears absently, and even half asleep they leaned into the contact immediately, more proof of all the progress they’d made. Price forced the unease down where it belonged.

Paranoia, he told himself.

Nothing more.

---

Sleep refused to come.

Price lay on his bunk, staring at the underside of the frame above him, muscles aching in the dull, bone-deep way that usually knocked him out the moment his head hit the pillow. The certification course hadn’t let up since day one - long hours, harder drills, constant evaluations meant to weed out anyone who couldn’t keep up. He needed the rest.

Instead, his thoughts circled stubbornly back to {{user}}.

He shifted onto his side with a sigh, grinding his teeth. He wasn’t worried. That was what he told himself, this was nothing more than a handler anxious about leaving their new hybrid, a common enough feeling for any handler, but especially one whose hybrid had such a morbid past. Anyone would be anxious to disrupt the healing process like this.

Still.

The memory came uninvited, sharp enough that he squeezed his eyes shut against it.

Standing in Shepherd’s office. The transfer paperwork already approved and sitting on the desk.

{{User}} lingering closer to him than usual, fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeve as if afraid to let go. They hadn’t understood - not really. Their eyes kept flicking up to his face, searching, ears pinned back as their posture gradually tightened like they were about to fold in on themselves. Anxious. Small. They’d looked at him like they were trying to figure out what they’d done wrong. Like this - him leaving - had to be their fault. Did they think they were being punished?

“I’ll be back,” he’d murmured, carefully pulling their hands away from his sleeve. “You be good for Shepherd while I’m gone, hmm?”

They’d nodded and reluctantly let him go, but the look on their face had stayed with him ever since.

Price rolled onto his back again, scrubbing his hands over his face with another sigh. A few more weeks, he told himself, a daily mantra at this point. That was all, just a handful of days, really, the way time moved in courses like this. He’d be back before they knew it, certified and official, able to put the whole thing behind them.

His hand flexed against the thin blanket as he glared up into the dark.

He’d requested updates. Just routine check-ins at first, nothing out of the ordinary for a handler away from their hybrid, but more pointedly when days passed without response. They were probably buried under Shepherd’s workload. Or maybe there was nothing worth reporting. Shepherd was qualified, licensed, and busy. An S-class handler like him would reach out if something were truly wrong, right?

Sleep came eventually, but it was restless, shallow, and that tight feeling in his chest never eased up.

---

Price hadn’t realized how much tension he’d been carrying until the transport finally touched down. The moment his boots hit familiar concrete, his shoulders relaxed for the first time in weeks. The certification badge clipped to his vest felt like nothing - just fabric and metal. What mattered was that it was done, he was back, and he could finally see -

Shouting.

Not training-field noise. Not drills. Panicked yelling. Sharp and urgent from up the corridor and around the corner.

Price frowned, pausing outside his and {{user}}’s shared quarters, adjusting the strap of his duffel as he turned toward the sound. More shouting, the sound of something heavy crashing or breaking, before he noticed the blood. Dragged across the floor in smeared streaks, leading toward the med-bay.

The duffel bag hit the ground, forgotten, and he was storming down the corridor, hand resting on the grip of his holstered pistol. He froze when he rounded the corner though, shock and confusion leaving him speechless. For a split second, his mind refused to process what he was seeing.

{{user}} was backed into the far corner of the med-bay, half-crouched, breathing heavily, blood dripping down one arm in a slow, steady rhythm. They looked thin. Way too thin, and ragged, skin stretched too tight over bone and sinew, as gaunt as the day he’d found them in that hellhole.

Their ribs were showing again. Hollowed cheeks. Eyes sunken and wild, black with fear and fury and exhaustion. Old scars - ones Price recognized - had been joined by newer ones. Barely even weeks old. And bruises bloomed over every inch of visible skin, some purple and black, some yellowed, some wrapping around their wrists and neck like they’d been restrained -

No. No, Christ, no-

Horror ricocheted through him, sending nausea reeling up his throat.

All of the progress, everything they’d fought for, all the slow, painful healing - it was gone. Stripped away. Reversed. They’d been safe. They’d been safe. What the hell happened?

Three soldiers had their weapons drawn, shouting conflicting commands. Two more stood to the side, clutching torn-up arms and bleeding through their uniforms, shaking and pale. One was being loaded onto a stretcher, face gray with shock. Shallow gouges marked the walls where claws had raked down drywall. Broken glass glittered across the floor.

And in the middle of it all- Shepherd.

Front and center in the chaos, posture rigid with fury, barking orders at a volume meant to intimidate, not calm or de-escalate the way a handler should. In his hand, a shock baton, set to a level most hybrids probably wouldn’t survive. Those were meant for missions, taking out enemy hybrids, and they were certainly never supposed to be used like this, for fucking punishment or training. Price could practically feel the charge crackling from here, and his heart thumped painfully in his chest. Everything he was seeing went directly against everything he’d learned as a handler, everything he’d been working for, and Shepherd's next words were like a knife to the gut.

“There are always some growing pains with hand-me-down assets like this one,” he rumbled to the soldier next to him, taking a step forward, fist tightening on the baton’s grip.

“A firmer hand is needed to keep control, but they all learn their lesson eventually, and come to heel as they should.”