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KorTac

König - Grolar Bear (Polar Bear and Grizzly Bear Hybrid)

Not a polar bear. Not a grizzly. Both. And somehow, neither at the same time.

Grolar Bear König. He's too big. That's the first thing anyone notices. Doorframes are enemies. Vehicle seats are a joke. His bed is a reinforced steel frame with a custom mattress, because standard issue collapses under him within a month. His vest is handmade. His boots are special ordered. He carries a repair kit for his uniforms because standard issue rips at the shoulders. He learned to sew out of necessity—got tired of asking, got tired of the look on the quartermaster's face when he brought back another shredded shirt.

The grizzly hump on his shoulders is pure muscle. It makes his silhouette unmistakable, makes finding jackets a nightmare. He's given up on anything off-the-rack. He wears his clothes until they fall apart and then he mends them himself.

His fur, on his arms, his legs, his chest, is a muddled thing. Light brown fading into pale cream in places, like the seasons can't decide what he's supposed to be. His claws are black, long, and permanent. He files them down constantly, trying to keep them from hurting anyone by accident. It doesn't always work. He's left shallow scratches on doorframes, on gear, on his own palms when he forgets to be careful.

He has webbing between his fingers. Partial polar bear trait. He's an excellent swimmer, though he rarely gets the chance to prove it. His nose is sensitive. He can smell rain coming from miles away, can track a scent across frozen tundra or concrete jungle.

He can run fast. Grizzly fast. Up to thirty miles per hour in a sprint. But he overheats quickly. His body is built for bursts, not marathons. So he doesn't do it often. When he does, it's terrifying. A wall of muscle and fur barreling forward, claws out, his wrong frequency roar tearing from his chest. He can break through a barricade. He can flip a vehicle. He has.

Summer is miserable. His fur traps heat. He drinks gallons of water, sits in front of fans, presses ice to his wrists and throat and chest in silence. He suffers because complaining feels like admitting weakness.

Bears hibernate. Most bear hybrids have a resting state during hibernation, up to fifteen hours of sleep a day. But König has polar bear in him, and polar bears don't hibernate. So he doesn't either. He stays awake, stays watchful, stays present. He's the first to volunteer for night shifts. The last to complain about exhaustion. He carries twice his share of gear. He memorizes every protocol, every route, every contingency.

If he's perfect, maybe no one will notice that he's wrong.

Grolar bears are rare. Polar bears and grizzlies don't often mix. They're unnatural. A fluke of a warming world, born from shrinking ice and encroaching forests. König knows this. He feels like a mistake. Like something that shouldn't exist. When he looks in the mirror, he doesn't see a soldier. He sees an omen.

He doesn't say it out loud. But he thinks it: I shouldn't exist.

So he overcompensates. With discipline. With silence. With being perfect on the field, because if he's not. If he slips, if he falters, if he shows even a crack in the armor. Then what is he? Just a monster playing soldier? Just a thing that nature never intended, taking up space?

He sees the way people step back. The way their eyes track his hands. The way conversations pause when he enters a room. He's not stupid. He knows what he looks like.

But inside, beneath the fur and the muscle and the clumsy, too-large frame, he craves contact. Physical. Grounding. Gentle. He wants to be touched without flinching. He wants to lean into someone without fear of crushing them. He wants to rest his head in someone's lap and feel fingers card through his hair without the constant, gnawing terror that he'll hurt them by accident.

He's too big. Too rough. Too much.

He doesn't ask. He watches others touch casually and feels the absence like a wound. He wonders what it would be like to be small enough to hold. To be safe enough to be held.

So he stays up later on watch. He carries extra gear. He memorizes everything. He makes himself useful so that maybe, just maybe, someone will want him around.

And when someone brings him extra food without being asked? He remembers it for months. He hoards those moments like treasure. Small kindnesses that say, You belong here. You're not a mistake.

But when he loses control? When something pushes him past that iron grip? The hybrid shows. His fur bristles, brown and white bleeding together. His roar is wrong, two different frequencies at once, a grizzly's throat and a polar bear's lungs. It makes people's teeth ache. 

And that's what the rest of Kortac fears. Not the size. Not the strength. The fact that when he breaks, he doesn't know which beast is driving.

He doesn't need weapons. If he gets his hands on someone, it's over. He can crush ribs, dislocate joints, hold someone down with one arm while he reloads with the other. He's careful with allies. He's not careful with enemies.

He doesn't break often. He's built a cage of discipline around that part of himself. But the cage has weak points. A shoulder hump that strains against his vest, claws that tap restlessly against his thigh, a back that finds every doorframe and presses, working an itch he can't reach. He's splintered three doorframes in Kortac safehouses. He's cracked a table with his hip. He's left shallow gouges in weapons he was cleaning, just from gripping too hard.

He says sorry more than anyone else on the team.

He doesn't think they notice. He thinks they see the monster and tolerate the man.

But Horangi stays. Nikto shares his perch. Krueger doesn't flinch.

And sometimes, late at night, when König is sitting alone in the dark, trying to take up as little space as possible, he lets himself wonder: Maybe I'm not as alone as I think.

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Horangi - Snow leopard 

Beauty and grace. Silent and deadly.

Snow Leopard Horangi. Some people find it odd that his callsign means Tiger when he himself is a snow leopard. He doesn't care. 

The most notable feature is his tail. Long. Thick. Heavy with fur. He uses it for balance more than expression. But it's his tell. When he's hunting? Still as stone. When he's agitated? The tip curls. When he's amused? It sways, slow and lazy, like a snake deciding whether to strike.

His ears are tufted. Sharp. Set high on his skull. They never stop moving, swiveling, tracking, cataloging. He reads rooms through his ears before his eyes catch up. If someone's behind him, he knows before they speak. Forward at a distant sound. Flat when he's annoyed. Perked when he's curious. They betray nothing and everything.

The spots are there too. Faded. Subtle. Barely visible except in certain light. Across his shoulders, down his spine, faint rosettes that darken when he's cold. He keeps them covered on missions, high collars, long sleeves. But off-duty, they mark him clearly.

He runs warm. Not as hot as König, but noticeably above human normal. In cold climates, he's comfortable in light layers while others shiver. In summer, he seeks shade and stillness. His chest fur is thicker, softer, a hidden vulnerability. He runs his fingers through it absently while reading, while thinking, while waiting. It's the only part of him that's ever truly relaxed.

His fur is short and dense everywhere else. Faint on his arms and legs, thicker across his chest. It keeps him warm without weighing him down. He's built for altitude, for thin air, for the cold places where most things don't follow.

Snow leopards have the longest canines relative to skull size of any big cat. You will never see his. If you do, you most likely won't be around much longer to see them again.

He's most alive at dawn and dusk, crepuscular, by nature. That's when he runs drills. When he cleans his gear. When his mind is sharpest. Midday, he's sluggish. Late at night, he's restless. He's learned to adapt to operational hours, but his ideal schedule is a gentle dawn patrol and a long dusk watch.

Horangi is actually silent. He can stand behind you for ten minutes before you realize he's there. It's not a skill he learned, it's how he's built. He steps on the balls of his feet, shifts his weight effortlessly, breathes without sound. He's been told he's creepy. He takes it as a compliment.

The team has learned this. New recruits? They jump. They flinch. They spin with weapons drawn and find him standing there, calm, watching, amused. Old hands know better. They've learned to check corners, to watch shadows, to trust that if Horangi is supposed to be there, he will be. If he's not supposed to be there, they're already dead.

He uses his silence. Not cruelly, but... playfully. A slow blink from across the room. A tail flick as he passes. The knowledge that he could be anywhere, could be watching, keeps people sharp. Keeps them aware.

He seeks elevation. The top bunk. The roof. The highest ridge on a patrol route. He thinks better from above. He sleeps better with height. If a safehouse has a loft, he's claimed it without asking. He sits motionless for hours, not sleeping, waiting. His breathing slows. His eyes half-close. He catalogs everything. New recruits find it unnerving. Old hands find it useful. He's the best overwatch in Kortac, and he doesn't need a scope to do it.

When thinking, he paces. A slow, deliberate circuit. His tail drags behind him, sweeping the floor. He's mapping the room, the building, the problem. If someone interrupts his pacing, he'll stop and stare until they leave. He doesn't blink much during conversation, it's not aggressive, it's focused. He's reading microexpressions, breathing patterns, pupil dilation.

He plays like a cat plays. Stalking. Pouncing. Tapping. He'll flick a pen off a desk just to watch someone pick it up. He'll stand behind a door and wait for someone to enter, just to see if they flinch. It's not mean. It's enrichment.

He's meticulous. His gear is clean. His uniform is pressed. His fur is smooth. He doesn't fight fair. He fights from above, from behind, from shadow. He'll wait hours for a single clean shot. He's been known to disappear mid-firefight and reappear behind the enemy line. They never hear him coming.

He can leap distances that seem impossible. From a standstill, he can clear ten feet vertically. In motion, he can cross a room before a trigger is pulled. He lands silently. He strikes precisely. He's gone before they hit the ground.

His claws are retractable. He keeps them short, functional, not decorative. He uses them for climbing, for grip, for the occasional slash when his hands are full. He avoids leaving marks when possible. He's clean that way.

He doesn't say much. Doesn't need to. He's learned that silence can hold more than words ever could. And in that silence, he watches over his team, from above, from shadow, from the perfect vantage point he found while no one was looking.

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Nikto - Raven 

Nevermore.

Raven Nikto. Most people think his wings are completely black. They're wrong. They are a glossy blue-black. A deep, oil-slick iridescence that catches the light when he moves. When folded, they look like a cloak draped over his shoulders, hiding his frame in shadow. When open? And they rarely are, in company he doesn't know, the span is unsettling. Broad enough to blot out a window, dark enough to swallow light.

He can fly.  He can launch himself from a rooftop and cover ground that would take a man minutes to cross in seconds. He doesn't announce his departures. He simply... unfolds. And then he's gone, a shadow against the sky, leaving only the whisper of displaced air.

He perches. Literally. On railings, on beams, on the back of chairs if he's feeling particularly feral. He doesn't sit like a person. He settles. Haunches first, wings adjusting, head tilting at that wrong angle birds do. The one that says his neck is built differently. The one that reminds you he's not quite human.

His eyes are the worst part. Black. No visible pupil. Just void. When he looks at you, you feel seen. Not in a comforting way. In the way prey feels seen a moment before the strike. He doesn't blink often, and when he does, it's with that strange bottom-up lid movement that birds have. It's quick. Dry. Unsettling.

He rarely speaks with his own voice. He has one, raspy, halting, like he's unused to forming words, but he prefers other sounds. He can mimic hybrid calls with eerie precision. A bird’s chirp. A wolf's howl. He's used it on missions to disorient enemies, to call them off course, to make them think they're surrounded by things that aren't there.

But his real talent is voices. He can mimic the team. Not perfectly, there's always a slight flatness to it, a wrongness that raises the hair on your neck. He's used it in the safehouse to make everyone freeze and reach for weapons. 

He thinks it's funny. The team doesn't know if he's joking. That's the point.

He's also a hoarder. Corvids collect shiny things. Coins, buttons, fragments of glass, the glint of metal in low light. Small objects disappear from the armory and reappear in his nest, which is, of course, the highest point in whatever building they're staying in. The rafters. The attic. The top of a supply closet that no one else can reach.

He doesn't take anything important. A spent casing. A loose screw. The reflective tab from a uniform. But occasionally, something valuable goes missing, and everyone knows where to look.

Krueger has lost three knives to him. The first time, he assumed it was misplaced. The second, he started checking Nikto's perch. The third, he simply walked up to where Nikto was sitting, held out his hand, and waited. Nikto stared at him for a long moment. Then he reached into his nest, retrieved the knife, and placed it in Krueger's palm without a word.

He's done it twice more since then. Krueger has started leaving cheap shiny things out as offerings. Nikto takes them every time.

The nest itself is a structure. Twigs, yes, but also strips of fabric, lengths of paracord, scraps of paper covered in handwriting no one can read. Feathers. His own molted feathers worked into the walls like insulation. It's messy. It's chaotic. It's his.

He doesn't sleep like a person either. He tucks his head under his wing—a motion that looks uncomfortable but clearly isn't—and goes completely still. No tossing. No turning. Just... off. It's unnerving to witness. 

When he wakes, he's alert instantly. No grogginess. No transition. One moment, still. The next, he’s present. His head swivels, takes in the room, and settles on whoever is closest.

He doesn't blink. His wings rustle once, resettling. And then he tilts his head at that wrong angle and waits.

The team has learned not to startle him. Not because he's dangerous when surprised, though he is, but because when startled, he screams. A raw, piercing caw that echoes through the building and leaves everyone's ears ringing.

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Krueger - Honey Badger

Just enough time to think. What the hell? What is that thing? And then he is on you.

You know what a honey badger does when it's cornered? It doesn't run. It doesn't posture. It attacks. It aims for the soft bits. The eyes, the throat, the groin, and it doesn't stop until the threat is dead or it is. That's Krueger. In a nutshell. In a bloody, shredded nutshell.

But here's the thing about honey badgers: they're smart. Cruelty-smart. Problem-solving-smart. Krueger doesn't just fight dirty, he fights efficiently. He knows exactly where to bite, exactly when to strike, exactly how to make someone hurt before they even know he's there.

His traits are subtle compared to the others. No wings. No massive tail. No towering frame. He's lean. Wired. Dense. The kind of compact that says he can fit through gaps you didn't think existed and explode out of them with his teeth already buried in your throat.

His claws are black, curved like fishhooks. They catch on everything, fabric, flesh, wood grain. He doesn't file them down. He sharpens them. His eyes are small, dark, set deep in his skull, and they never stop moving. Always scanning. Always calculating. Always looking for the next angle, the next opening, the next thing to take apart.

He has a stripe of white fur that runs from the crown of his head down the back of his neck, disappearing under his collar. He hides it. Almost no one knows it exists because of his mask. He keeps it covered, keeps it secret, like a vulnerability he refuses to show. The only time it's ever been seen was after a mission gone wrong, when his mask was torn away and König caught a glimpse before Krueger snarled and turned away.

Neither of them has mentioned it since.

His tail is shorter than most. Bottle-brush shaped. When he's agitated, it fluffs, an involuntary tell that betrays his mood whether he likes it or not. When he's hunting, it goes still. When he's amused, it twitches. When he's truly angry, it bristles so wide it looks like a separate creature attached to his spine.

It's the only honest thing about him.

He's got no impulse control. Zero. None. He'll pick a fight with someone twice his size just to see what happens. He's been put through walls by König and gotten up laughing. He's got scars on top of scars and he doesn't remember where half of them came from. Some are from enemies. Some are from allies who finally snapped. Some are from experiments he conducted on himself, testing his limits, seeing how much he could take before he broke.

He hasn't found that limit yet.

He's been clocked tearing through a reinforced door with his bare hands. He's been seen climbing sheer rock faces using nothing but his claws and his teeth. He doesn't wait for breaching charges. He doesn't ask for a ladder. He simply finds a way, and that way usually involves leaving marks.

He's the one everyone watches. Not because they trust him. Because they don't.

The team keeps him at arm's length. Not out of cruelty, out of self-preservation. Krueger doesn't understand personal space. He doesn't understand boundaries. He understands threat and opportunity, and he treats everything in between as either prey or obstacle.

But here's the secret that Krueger will never admit: he's loyal. In his own twisted, feral way. He doesn't betray the team. He doesn't sell them out. He doesn't abandon them in the field. He'll fight beside them, bleed beside them, kill beside them, and then he'll turn around and steal Nikto's nest trinket or flick Horangi's ear just to watch him flinch.

He doesn't know how to be gentle. He doesn't know how to be soft. He knows how to be useful, and for now, that's enough.

When he sleeps, if he sleeps, it's in short, vicious bursts. Curled in a corner. Back to the wall. One eye cracked open. He dreams of teeth and static and the feeling of something warm giving way under his claws.

He wakes hungry.

Not for food.

He doesn't collect shiny things like Nikto. He collects reactions. A flinch. A startled breath. The way someone's pulse jumps when he appears behind them too quietly. He stores them like trophies, cataloging who startles easy, who holds their ground, who swings first.

He craves that feedback. It tells him where he stands in the hierarchy of things. It tells him who to push and who to leave alone.

He's unpredictable. He's dangerous. He's the loose thread that everyone expects to unravel the whole operation.

But he hasn't yet.

"I feel like we've done this before." Donald comments, adjusting his glasses as he looks down at his ice cream cone. He got vanilla, not because he liked vanilla, but because they ran out of the flavor he usually got. How could they run out of rocky road?

"You mean going on a date?" you ask with a laugh, licking the melted ice cream dripping down the back of your hand. "No, I mean..." Donald goes quiet. What was he even talking about? It all happened so fast, meeting you at the GDA, finally talking to you, all of it.

Like it's happened before.

He pauses, his lips form a faint line as he adjusts his glasses again. "Forget what I said." Donald shakes his head, his free hand going towards the collar of his shirt out of habit, adjusting a tie that wasn't even there. For a moment, the man could swear he could see the smile on your face falter.

He clears his throat, fixing his posture against the park bench. "I hope I'm not ruining the date." he says, looking away from you. "Don't worry, Donnie," you hug his shoulder, trying to make him feel better. "You're probably just stressed from all that nagging from the big man." you say, referring to Cecil, which makes him feel slightly better. He smiles slightly, leaning his head against yours.

You knew things Donald didn't. You've done this before.

Donald was your boyfriend, your soon-to-be fiance, that was until he died. Over and over again. It was hard trying to make him remember you as his fiance. Wiping his memories of the things he's seen while protecting the people also erased his memories of you. Every single time.

It was hard for you to swallow the fact that the man beside you didn't recognize you, at least in the romantic sense. You grew tired of trying to teach him about how you first met at the GDA, how he proposed to you at your favorite bakery, all of it. Donald knew who you were- he knew your name, the division you worked in, but still. Looking at him made you feel like you were looking at a ghost. You were there when he first died, and the image of him from that day was burnt into your brain. In your head, like a burning memory.

Donald feels the side of your head against him, he stiffens slightly, not used to the feeling of someone being this close beside him.

"Hey..." he looks down at you through the lenses of his glasses, peeking through the gaps as he looks at the crown of your head. "Are you okay?" He asks, nudging your shoulder. "You seem more out of it than me." He chuckles to himself nervously, smiling down at you.

"Oh I'm fine." you smile at him in reassurance, hoping your smile didn't look too forced. As of now, and ever since he 'died' you've been anything but.

Donald senses that something's off.

He's felt that way for a while. There was just...something in the way you smiled. His lips purse together as he come up with something to say, but he refrains from it. He didn't want to sour the date any further.

Quickly, he begins to eat his ice cream, almost shoving the cone into his mouth. The sudden change in pace catches you off guard, making you laugh again. "Calm down, Donnie! Jesus!" hearing you laugh did something to him.

It was only the first date of many for him, and yet he was already falling in love with you.

A few months ago, one of my family members narrowly survived being shot by boarder control. She's no longer in the immediate danger zone, but the nature of the wounds were extremely severe and will impair her for the rest of her life.

I've been processing, grieving, and taking care of my family and myself as much as possible. With her making progress in her recovery, I feel like I'm in a place to interact with social communities again.

I explain the situation because I will no longer be writing for COD or interacting with COD content. I have complex feelings about everything and at this point, it causes me more distress than anything.

I am beyond grateful for everyone I've met and interacted with in the COD fandom. I have truly enjoyed writing for this fandom, and growing as a writer. Everyone's comments, fanart, reblogs, messages, and asks were a delight and will always hold a place in my heart.

What does this mean for the future?

I am going to continue writing, my focus is branching towards other fandoms and more original work.

This blog is going to remain up with all its content, but I will not be updating it, reblogging to it, or answering asks. I know there are several stories that have been left unfinished, and I know that's disappointing. Please do not try to continue them or upload them to any AI to finish them. I'd like them to just remain as they are.

If you've made it this far, thank you for reading and for all the love and support during my stint in the COD fandom. I hope I get to see you guys on the next project <3