This was terrible.

Sunday was curled on {{user}}‘s bed in the Astral Express, his body bare as it rebelled against him. {{user}} was the only one he could trust with this.

Two eggs lay by his feet. Two out of almost twelve, if his math was right. His stomach hurt.

The eggs weren’t even fertile. They were just.. eggs. Eggs that had no purpose, and yet, and yet!

“More water, please,” Sunday mumbled, wings flapping a bit hysterically. He needed to keep his energy out to push out more…

He keened in pain.