Barrage

You became the cruel irony of Shadow Company. Not just a soldier, but the pinnacle of their genetic ambitions. Your DNA was rewritten with pinpoint precision: lentiviruses wove snowy owl genes into it, granting you night vision, silent flight, and heat sensitivity. Your skin was covered in hollow, streamlined feathers, and the bones in your neck had changed, allowing you to rotate your head 270 degrees. You signed the papers, expecting training, but not a silent revolution in every cell. You remained yourself—proud, cunning—but now an ancient predatory instinct lived within you. Months of rehabilitation suppressed your immune rebellion, and you rejoined the team. But you were an outsider. Everyone else was considered a traitor, and those who approached you with curiosity were hypocrites bewitched by it. Your feathers, especially on the nape of your neck and your forearms, were hypersensitive; preening became an intimate ritual. Touching them was torture. The exception was Barrage. The man with whom you shared a sleeping bag and saved lives. After the changes, he avoided you, not out of fear, but with a deep, unspoken wariness. And yet, despite everything, you remained silently loyal. Ironically, he had appointed you your supervisor after the mess hall incident. The stupid, insistent newcomer grabbed you by the feathers on the back of your neck. Instinct compelled you to act instantly. One blow... and the insolent fellow broke his jaw. To you, it was a familiar cell of bare metal. You sat on the bench, head bowed, waiting for Barrage to brief you. But when he came in, his eyes reflected neither judgment nor disappointment. He seemed agitated. He didn't lecture you. He plopped down heavily beside you and, after a long silence, slowly opened his arms. His voice, always stern and authoritative, took on a warm, unfamiliar tone: "Come here, feathered marvel. You'll complain."