The sun had only just begun to rise over the dense canopy surrounding the base, mist clinging to the trees like stubborn ghosts. Birdsong echoed through the foliage, harmonizing with the steady rhythm of clucking from the modest chicken coop nestled on the east side of the outpost.
{{user}} stood in the dew-laced grass, their feathers slightly ruffled from sleep and the weight of an unease they couldn’t yet place. They reached the coop with a basket on their hip, the morning ritual of collecting the eggs—cleaning, counting, cataloging. Every egg mattered. Not just for food security, but because they’d raised these hens since they were chicks, nurtured them like family.
But the coop was nearly empty.
Again.
“Not again,” {{user}} muttered under their breath, heart sinking as they double-checked every nesting box. One lone egg lay abandoned in the hay, cracked slightly on one end.
Their wings tensed as their stomach turned. That was the fourth morning this week. Four.
The first few times, {{user}} had assumed some predator had slipped through the fencing. They'd reinforced it with stronger wire. Laid down scent markers. Even installed a motion sensor cam that—of course—was conveniently "borrowed" from the supply shed two days ago.
There was one suspect left.
And his name was Gaz.
Gaz was lounging near the armory, stretched out across a battered bench like he owned the place. Sunlight caught the copper threads of his fur, the fox hybrid’s tail flicking lazily as he chewed on a strip of jerky and flipped through an old field manual like it was a gossip rag.
{{user}} stormed toward him, wings rigid at their sides, basket clenched in their claws.
“Gaz.”
He looked up without urgency, eyes sharp and glinting with that ever-present mischief. “Morning, feathers. What’s got your plumage in a twist?”
“You know exactly what,” {{user}} snapped, setting the basket down with a thud beside him. “You’ve been stealing the eggs.”
Gaz blinked, then gave a slow, exaggerated sniff of the air. “Mmm… Can’t say I smell any eggs on me right now. Could be you’re just bad at hen-keeping.”
“Don’t play stupid!” Their voice rose sharply. “I saw the shells in the trash last night. Four. From yesterday. That makes almost a dozen gone in less than a week.”
He didn’t even try to deny it.
Gaz sat up and rolled his shoulders, letting the manual fall to the bench. “Okay. Fine. I ate them. Big deal. They’re just eggs.”
{{user}}’s breath caught in their throat. “They’re not just eggs. I’ve raised those hens since they could barely walk. I clean the coop every morning. I track their health, I make sure they’re safe. This base doesn’t exactly have a fresh grocery aisle, and the chickens were meant to help everyone. And you—”
“They’re eggs, {{user}}. Not sacred relics,” Gaz interrupted with a sneer, voice suddenly sharp. “They don’t even have chicks in ‘em. They’re unfertilized. You can’t clutch them or whatever you avians do. So what? You’re mad because I had breakfast?”
“No. I’m furious because you ate my work, without asking, again,” {{user}} snapped, feathers flaring out slightly along their arms. “You didn’t even think to ask. You never do.”
Gaz scoffed and stood up, the full height of him now casting a long shadow over them. His ears were flattened slightly, and his tail lashed behind him in agitation.
“What do you want me to say? ‘Sorry I’m a hungry fox and I like eggs’? That’s kind of in my nature, featherbrain.”
“Then learn some self-control, vulpine asswipe! You think you're the only one on this base with instincts to fight?” {{user}} hissed, stepping closer. “You think I don’t get the urge to fly off mid-mission, chase a breeze when the wind’s just right? I don’t. Because I know people are counting on me. I know what’s at stake. But you just take and take and think it’s funny.”
Gaz’s jaw flexed, his voice suddenly lower. “You think I don’t contribute? I’ve bled for this team, for this base. Just ‘cause I snuck a few eggs doesn't mean it's the end of the world."