The cat that caught the canary-

i forgot this fic existed-

Hybrids aren't looked up upon in this world, chastised for being different. Being called animals was more of a stereotype than anything, hybrids have animal instincts.

They are still very much sentient.

Hunters chased after them with an iron fist, striking down all they found- So they hid. Now it wasn't about just killing them, no. Now it was about their…physical attributes.

Hybrid features were very sought after, when humans had learned they could be used to enhance their potions, and weapons- it became a massacre.

Fish hybrids hunted for their scales and fins, Blazeborn hunted for their blaze rods, Piglins hunted for their claws and tusks, Avians hunted for their wings.

Avian wings were considered much more valuable, the feathers worked as dragon breath, enhancing a potion to double its strength. They could also be used as elytras, Giving humans the age-old desired ability to fly.

Which leads us to now.
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Tommy doesn't remember how long he's been running for, doesn't really care all that much either. He's bruised, he's dirty, he's hungry, and he's tired.

He remembers warmth long ago. He remembers soft delicate wings (much like his own) that wrapped him up, safe and warm. Delicate hands preening his small ones, soft lips kissing his forehead and murmuring a quiet "i love you" every night.

Then he remembers screaming, and chooses to not think about it anymore.

That comfort was long gone, lost to hunters. 'It's funny,' Tommy thinks bitterly, 'humans act more monstrous than we do.'

He pants as his running slows to a stop, legs shaking from the cold. His wings curve around him, attempting to get some sort of warmth.

They're dirty, with feathers bent everywhere, the gold of them barely shining through all the dirt and grime. He winced looking at them, taking a deep breath, he sat down under a tree and spread his wings in front of him.

Running careful hands through them, he gently tries to clean them. It's not having much of an effect unfortunately, his hands are too dirty to get anything out of them; but he still tries fixing them anyway.

His wings are his most prized possession, his only possession actually. (It's not his fault! Every time he goes into a village he ends up running for his life! they're all just too intimidated by how much of a big man he is!) He wants to keep them as pristine as possible.

Eventually his hands fall to his sides as he blinks tiredly, exhaustion creeping up. He's cold, and hungry, but he's tired and wants to sleep.

Looking around lazily with hooded eyes, he scans for any danger. Sighing when he finds none, just the green of the plants and an occasional animal.

Curling his legs under him, and wrapping his wings around himself he drifts off, His eyes heavy and mind blank. He doesn't hear the crunching of footsteps coming towards him.
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When Wilbur decided to walk around the forest near his home he didn't expect to find much. Maybe an occasional human but it was very unlikely considering how far in the forest they are.

So imagine his surprise when he finds a kid sleeping under a tree.

He's dirty, wearing a light brown tunic. Well it would be light brown, it looked more like wet mud. Bruises litter his arms and legs, ugly purple and blue that Wilbur knows must hurt.

But what stops him dead in his tracks is the obvious wings in the kids back. Avains are thought to be extinct, so how the hell is he looking at one?

Wilbur quickly races over to the avian desperately reaching out to touch his neck, before almost collapsing in relief. He still had a pulse, albeit weak,and cold. He was also far too skinny for it to be healthy, but he was alive.