Chapter Text
Mumbo crouched low in the dirt, his hands working mechanically. The wooden box, barely tall enough for him to crouch in, felt stifling, even though he wasn’t the one trapped in it. Wire made up the windows, thick and rusting, but strong enough to hold whatever creature had been shoved inside. He had to bend at an awkward angle to clean, his back protesting with each scoop of dirty straw. He didn’t let himself pause, didn’t allow a single break to straighten up and stretch. The faster he finished, the sooner he could slip out of sight.
His breath fogged in the cool night air, the only light from a single torch perched on a pole nearby, its flickering glow casting long, twisted shadows across the clearing. The hunters’ camp, a semi-permanent settlement deep in the heart of the forest, was eerily quiet in some corners but rowdy in others. A sea of canvas tents stretched between the trees, blending into the wilderness, but with enough horses and wagons to signal the movement of men who considered themselves predators. Every few weeks, they packed up and moved, always following a fresh lead or the promise of new game. And tonight, they’d returned victorious.
Mumbo could hear them in the background, a cacophony of voices raised in raucous celebration around their campfire, shouting and laughing, their tankards sloshing with cheap ale. He hated them. Hated the way they took so much joy in their cruelty. He briefly entertained the thought of one of them stumbling too close to the flames, but his imagination didn’t linger on it. No use in fantasies. His survival depended on silence, on staying beneath notice.
He knew the reason for their revelry. He heard whispered rumours through the camp that five hybrids had been caught in today’s hunt, including an avian. That was rare, valuable. Avian hybrids fetched high prices at the markets, especially once cleaned up for their new owners. Mumbo grimaced as he thought about what that meant for the poor soul in question.
From his time among these men, Mumbo had learned to piece together the harsh logic of their world. Hybrids were never considered equals to humans. No matter how high a hybrid might climb, they’d always remain beneath the lowest of men.
Mumbo’s thoughts drifted, as they often did, back to his own capture. He had been young, barely twelve, taken from his homeland after his village was overrun. The men had been slaughtered in front of his eyes, while he and his mother were thrown into the back of a cart, dragged away like spoils of war. Now, years later, Mumbo was just one of many humans caught up in this endless cycle, forced to work while hybrids were used for harder labour or sold off like rare animals for display. He hated all of it- the hierarchy, the injustice- but kept his head down, trying to survive the only way he knew how: by staying invisible.
Just as he finished cleaning the cage, the noise from the campfire died down, signalling the end of the celebrations. Mumbo turned to slip away, but the sound of heavy chains dragging through the dirt made him pause. The hunters were leading their new captives through the camp. His breath hitched, but he quickly ducked behind one of the tents, crouching low to avoid being seen. Through the gap in the tent’s canvas, he caught a glimpse of the hybrids.
The avian hybrid led the group, his wings drooping, oily feathers limp and tangled with grime. His blonde hair fell in dirty strands over his face, and his eyes were wide with a wild sort of fear, darting around as if looking for an escape that wasn’t there. His arms were bound tightly in chains, the metal rattling with each step, and Mumbo could see the blood on his skin. They’d been tormenting him all evening, he realized. A sick ritual of roughing him up just enough to assert their power before they’d have to stop and let him recover for sale.
In the avian’s arms, clinging tightly to him, was a small girl, her face buried in his shoulder. Mumbo’s stomach twisted at the sight. The child’s curly red hair was matted, her tiny hands gripping the avian with the desperation of someone who had learned too early that safety was fleeting. He heard whispers earlier about a “little red-headed demon” who had bitten one of the hunters during the struggle- that must be her.
Just before they were dragged past him, the girl’s face lifted, her tear-streaked cheeks visible in the dim torchlight. Mumbo’s heart clenched painfully. She couldn’t have been more than five, maybe six, and yet the exhaustion in her eyes made her seem much older. She sucked on her thumb, and her eyes locked with Mumbo’s for the briefest moment. That was when he saw them- small red ears pinned flat against her head. A fox hybrid.
His throat tightened. Fox hybrids weren’t rare enough to be valuable, but they weren’t common either. She was likely destined for hard labour, sold off to toil away her short years in some gruelling job, cast aside when she could no longer keep up. Mumbo didn’t envy her future.
He pressed himself harder against the side of the tent, desperate not to be noticed as the hybrids were shoved into their new cages. He watched the avian and the fox girl disappear into the darkness, their mournful cries beginning to fill the camp. Mumbo swallowed thickly, knowing he wouldn’t be able to tune out those sounds tonight. The avian’s low crooning carried on the wind, sorrowful and haunting.
Later, back in his own tent, Mumbo lay on his thin mat, staring up at the fabric ceiling. The rustling of the camp outside, the occasional flicker of a dying fire, and the quiet sobs of the new captives all blended together into an oppressive silence. He closed his eyes, but the image of the tiny fox girl’s tear-filled gaze wouldn’t leave him. He tried to will the thoughts away, to block out the sounds of the avian’s mournful cries, but they lingered, heavy and inescapable.
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Over the next few days, Mumbo caught fleeting glimpses of the new hybrids. Whenever he passed the cages, he’d catch the faintest sight of a wingtip through the wire, or the girl’s red curls tangled and dirty, her small head just barely visible between the bars. It made his heart twist each time, though he kept his expression neutral, eyes forward as he moved through the camp, doing his work. He wasn’t one to linger where the hunters might notice his gaze.
One afternoon, he was tasked with feeding the captives- an assignment that filled him with unease but also gave him a closer look at them. Bread and water, the bare minimum to keep them alive for the next market.
Mumbo carried the rough loaves and dented metal cups, stopping at each cage to unlock the small hatch and drop the meagre rations inside. Most of the hybrids didn’t even look up, too drained to react. He worked quickly, his hands moving automatically as his mind tried to detach from what he was doing.
When he reached the avian’s cage, Mumbo hesitated, surprised by what he saw. The little girl- the fox hybrid- was in there with him. Usually, the hunters kept everyone separated, indifferent to the cries of the children. But here, the small fox girl sat protectively in front of the avian. Mumbo understood why the moment he saw them more clearly.
The avian lay curled on his side, his wings limp and wrapped around his body like a protective shield. His face was pale, sickly, his eyes closed as though he had long since given up trying to resist. The girl, in contrast, was alert, sitting on her knees beside him. Mumbo’s heart sank further as he realized just how tiny she was- she actually couldn’t have been older than four, her clothes tattered and far too big for her fragile frame.
He knelt down, unlocking the hatch to push the food and water through. As he did, the girl’s head snapped up, her wide, tired eyes locking onto the bread he dropped inside. She stared at it, her body tensing like a coiled spring, ready to move. Mumbo didn’t meet her gaze, but he felt the intensity of it as she suddenly spoke, her voice barely more than a whisper.
“Please.”
The word was small, desperate. Mumbo’s hand froze in place as he looked up at her. She stared at him, her expression a strange mix of fear and determination.
“He can’t eat the bread. It makes him sick. He’s going to die.”
Mumbo blinked, taken aback. The avian remained motionless, not even stirring as the girl spoke on his behalf.
The bread? Of course. It made sense. Hybrids often had different needs, different diets. But it wasn’t something the hunters cared about. They only fed them enough to keep them alive, long enough to be sold. Whether they got sick from the food wasn’t their problem.
Mumbo’s throat tightened, an uncomfortable feeling spreading through his chest. He couldn’t do anything about it. He couldn’t ask for other food, not without drawing unwanted attention to himself. And part of him wondered, grimly, if dying might be a kinder option for the avian than whatever life awaited him next.
“I’ll… see what I can find,” he muttered, avoiding her gaze as he pushed the rest of the food inside. The girl’s eyes stayed on him as he locked the hatch again. He didn’t linger.
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That evening, Mumbo found himself clearing the remains of the hunters’ feast. They were heading out for another hunt in the morning, and tonight’s dinner had been a gluttonous affair- meat, fruits, bread, all spread out on a long table beneath the flickering light of the torches. Mumbo moved with the captive humans, clearing away the dishes while the hunters retreated to their tents, bellies full, voices still loud from drink.
As he stacked the last of the plates, something caught his eye. An apple, bright and untouched, had rolled beneath one of the benches, forgotten. He hesitated, glancing around to see if anyone else had noticed. The others were busy, already taking the dishes to be washed. The hunters were nowhere in sight. His heart raced as he bent down, fingers closing around the cool, smooth skin of the fruit. Quickly, without thinking, he slipped it into the front pocket of his jacket, his breath shallow as he straightened up.
The fabric of his jacket was loose, flowing enough to conceal the apple’s shape, but his nerves prickled at the thought of being caught. He knew the punishment for stealing, especially food meant for the hunters. Mumbo shoved the thought away, focused on keeping his movements calm and unhurried as he finished his tasks.
The camp was mostly silent, save for the occasional grunt from a horse or the soft shuffle of boots in the distance. Mumbo’s heart pounded as he crept toward the hybrid cages, the apple burning like a secret weight in his pocket. He glanced over his shoulder every few steps, expecting at any moment for someone to call out, to catch him in the act.
When he reached the avian’s cage, he crouched low. The firelight cast long shadows, but he could still see the small figure huddled inside, the red curls barely illuminated by the flickering glow. Mumbo fumbled with the latch, his hands trembling as he whispered through the bars.
“You have to eat the whole thing. If they find you with it… they’ll kill you.”
He dropped the apple through the hatch, the smooth weight of it disappearing into the darkness beyond the wire. For a moment, he held his breath, straining to hear any sign that he’d been caught. But there was only silence, save for the faint rustle of the girl moving.
Her voice, soft as it was, reached him in the dark.
“Thank you.”
Mumbo barely caught the whispered words, but they clung to him as he backed away, the sight of her dirty, tear-streaked face imprinted in his mind. He didn’t linger, slipping back into the shadows, his pulse racing as he returned to the safety of his own tent. But that small voice, and the image of the fox girl’s red hair in the firelight, stayed with him long after the camp had settled into uneasy sleep.