Intern’s Log: Why We Don’t Make Cat-Soldiers Anymore

  Date: Classified

  Intern ID: Reynolds, J.

  Look, I knew this internship at Project Canid was going to be weird. I expected weird. Genetic engineering, hybrid soldiers, government secrecy? Sign me up. But nobody prepared me for Project Felis.

  Let me tell you, there’s a reason we don’t have cat-soldiers. And that reason is they are complete psychopaths.

  Phase One: The Prototype

  The higher-ups figured if dog-soldiers worked, why not cats? Cats are fast, stealthy, and have excellent reflexes. Great for infiltration, right?

  So we made one. Just one. His designation was 001-F, but we called him Mittens. That was our first mistake.

  At first, everything seemed fine. He was sleek, fast, and had perfect night vision. Physically, the perfect stealth operative. Mentally? Satan in a fur coat.

  Phase Two: Behavioral Testing

  Training started with basic commands. "Mittens, sit."

  Mittens stared at us. He did not sit.

  "Mittens, retrieve."

  Mittens blinked slowly and knocked the training dummy off the table.

  "Mittens, follow."

  Mittens vanished.

  Now, dog-soldiers? They’re loyal, eager to please, and work well in teams. Mittens? Mittens worked well alone, usually in the ceiling vents. No one knew how he got up there.

  At first, it was just annoying. We had to lure him out of the rafters with tuna, and even then, he'd only come down when he felt like it. But things escalated.

  Phase Three: Psychological Concerns

  The first red flag was when the base commander started screaming one morning.

  Turns out, Mittens had been leaving "gifts" in his boots. Not socks. Not personal items.

  Dead mice. Lots of them.

  Nobody knew where he was getting them. The lab was clean. We had no mice. But somehow, Mittens found a way.

  Then it got worse. The commander’s bed became a prime target. At first, it was dead things. Then it was stolen personal items. Then it was live things. Have you ever heard a grown man scream because a genetically enhanced cat left a snake under his pillow? I have.

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  Security footage showed Mittens watching from the shadows, enjoying the reaction.

  Phase Four: Tactical Training Failure

  We thought, "Okay, he’s just mischievous. He’s still trainable."

  Wrong.

  When introduced to combat drills, Mittens refused to engage unless he started it. Instead of following orders, he waited until his opponent was distracted, then attacked with lethal precision. He never fought fair.

  Instead of learning squad-based tactics, Mittens manipulated his handlers into competing for his favor. One scientist—Dr. Patel—started bringing him treats just to avoid being targeted.

  We soon realized that all deciles (our term for batches of hybrids) were exhibiting psychopathic traits. Every test subject from the Felis line was:

  ? Uncooperative

  ? Manipulative

  ? Sadistic

  ? Obsessed with personal territory

  ? Too independent for structured missions

  Phase Five: Absolute Chaos

  Mittens wasn’t just difficult—he was actively undermining the program.

  He set up ambushes in hallways by knocking objects off high shelves as people walked underneath.

  He stole vital documents and hid them where no one could find them.

  He figured out how to open doors—even locked ones.

  He got into the vents and turned the entire base into his hunting ground.

  The final straw? He stole the general’s gun.

  We still don’t know how.

  Project Termination

  After three months of chaos, Project Felis was scrapped. Every decile was decommissioned. (Don’t ask how. I assume the scientists involved are in therapy.) The report officially stated that cat hybrids are "unsuitable for military applications due to extreme noncompliance, manipulative tendencies, and fundamental disregard for hierarchical structures."

  Unofficially? The cat-soldiers were little furry serial killers.

  To this day, nobody knows what happened to Mittens. He escaped before termination. Security never found his body. His tracking implant was removed and left in the commander’s desk drawer—along with a single dead bird.

  Sometimes, late at night, the commander swears he hears scratching in the vents.

  We don’t talk about it.