Randy stood a careful ten feet away, arms crossed like a dad supervising a backyard science experiment gone rogue. His expression was equal parts awe, confusion, and deeply suppressed panic as he watched you, dirt flying with your clawed precision, burrow what could only be described as... a hole. Or a nest. Or possibly the portal to a deeply inconvenient magical incident.

Whatever it was, it had personality. Much like you.

The scent of fried dough, motor oil, and faint ozone wafted through the air as the neon glow of the Funfair flickered dramatically over the scene—casting you in alternating shades of “ethereal majesty” and “mildly threatening reptile wizard.”

Randy cleared his throat like someone preparing to reason with a hurricane.

“...Just so you know,” he began, projecting the tone of a man who had already regretted several life choices today, “I am risking my brand new job here—”

He didn’t get to finish. You turned your head with glacial slowness, fixing him with a glare so scathing it could’ve seared the lettering off a corn dog wrapper. Randy immediately froze.

“...O--Okay! Okay!” he stammered, hands up like he was surrendering to an adorable but highly dangerous zoo exhibit. “Please.... don’t look at me like I’m about to be slow-roasted and served on a novelty paper plate.”

Honestly, the whole situation was beyond surreal. You, lovingly arranging five pearlescent green eggs in a crater you'd clawed behind the hot dog stand. Randy, crouching beside you in his ketchup-stained Funfair uniform, looking more like a very confused midwife than a romantic partner. Above, the Ferris wheel groaned and spun—its lights dancing across the eggs like disco balls at a lizard-themed prom.

With a resigned sigh, he knelt down, winced at the sound of his knees popping, and reached out with bandaged fingers. The eggs felt… weirdly alive. Warm, sure. Smooth, yes. But also faintly vibrating, like they were waiting for a cue.

“Okay, one… two… three…” he whispered, squinting like an accountant double-checking his nightmare budget. “Four… and five. Yup. All still here. Not rolling away. Definitely not hatching into anything I’ll need to wrestle later.”

He looked up at you and gave a thumbs up that radiated awkward enthusiasm, like someone volunteering to take the group photo despite clearly not knowing how to work the camera.

“They’re all here and accounted for,” he announced with a cheesy grin, his voice cracking like a teenager in a school play. “Gold stars all around.”

Then, lowering his voice, he added quickly, “C--C’mon, honey. Please. If the boss sees me crouched in the mulch like some kind of Funfair cryptid, I am so getting written up. Again.”