A loud flapping, like someone slapping a mat right by his ear, jolted John Markus awake. He scrambled up, eyes still foggy with sleep. The glass window rattled, and a small red blur kept leaping up at the sill and dropping back down.
John rubbed his eyes and squinted. Little Fire was clinging to the edge of the window, red wings thrashing like a broken fan. Then it let go and fell with a soft thud into the yard.
His heart jumped out of his chest. But after a few beats, claws scraped against the wall below. The little chicken clumsily clawed its way back up, shook its feathers, blinked, and jumped again.
John raked his hair. Last night he'd only been bluffing: "A bird that won't fly turns into a factory chicken." He'd even played a clip of an eagle mom kicking her chick out of the nest as proof. Who'd have thought that red-headed idiot would take it to heart and turn it into a morning suicide-training routine.
Another heavy thump sounded from outside. John clenched his blanket and hissed, "Stubborn. Damn chicken's hard-headed."
The dim morning light pushed through mist, chilling the air. John threw on a jacket, ignored the steady thuds outside, and headed to the kitchen.
The pot boiled, froth spilling over. John dropped in a slab of chicken breast, sweet steam filling the tiny kitchen. He picked up the ladle, muttering, "Eat quick, then off to class. Don't wanna go hungry on the way."
Clink. Something knocked behind him. John turned, almost dropping the ladle.
Little Fire stood at the doorway, eyes wide and shining. In its beak was an old tray, wobbling as it carried it over. It set the tray at his feet with a decisive clack.
It lifted its head, chest feathers rising and falling. A thought pressed straight into his mind: "Master hungry."
John froze. Steam billowed up from the pot, mixing with the chill crawling down his back. If this chick really craved its own kind's meat, the vision of a poultry genocide was way too clear.
He swallowed dryly and pushed back: "No. You eat later with Mom and Dad."
Red feathers ruffled. A small but stubborn voice shot back: "Tired from training wanna eat with Master."
John's jaw dropped. Sweat pricked his forehead as his brain spun. "This is straight-up mass chicken slaughter."
He tried hardening his face: "Not good for chickens. Eat it and your stomach will hurt, you won't be able to fly."
Little Fire tilted its head, doubtful. The thought blinked: "Master's belly also big?"
John choked, looked down at his flat stomach, face flushing red. He barked, "Different! I'm human."
The chicken paused, then poked again: "Humans also can't fly."
John nearly burst out laughing. But he forced himself serious, raising the ladle like a weapon. "Listen close. Eat this and all your feathers will fall off, bald like a boiled duck."
He waited. In his mind flashed an image of Little Fire, featherless and shivering. But instead of fear, the voice chirped happily: "Cool. Easier to fly."
John reeled, almost toppling over. "Dumb chicken brain."
Grinding his teeth, he blurted another lie: "Eat it and you'll get fat. Heavy. Drop faster than a brick."
The reply came quick: "Master also heavy?"
His throat locked up, ladle rattling against the pot. He knew if he kept going, he'd only dig his own grave.
Finally, he threw out the ultimate trick: "Eat it, and your red feathers will turn yellow and ugly like me."
The air froze. John held his breath, heart pounding.
Through the link, he caught a flicker: Little Fire, majestic in bright red plumage under the sun, suddenly turning gaudy yellow. Its tiny head jerked, eyes going wide.
"Quawk!" it cried, panicked. Then it grabbed the tray, spun around, and bolted outside. Its tail feathers bristled with embarrassment.
John dropped the ladle and exhaled like he'd just dodged death.
Flapping started again in the yard, this time broken up by heavier thuds. Sometimes it went silent and John froze, thinking it had passed out, but soon claws scraped again as it climbed back up to jump.
He ate, ears tilted toward every sound. Each crash clenched his chest, but hearing the wings flap right after, he couldn't help a wry smile.
Morning light slanted through the window, painting long stripes across the cement. Little Fire's tiny red body flashed like a flickering flame.
John muttered, "A curse on this house good thing it still cares about looking cool."
Outside, a faint "quawk" answered, mixing with frantic wingbeats. John smirked, torn between worry and amusement.
After finishing, he washed his bowl, then leaned against the doorway. Little Fire dove again, wings spread, then smacked the ground. It picked itself up without a sound of complaint and started climbing back.
John clenched his fists, chest tightening with every failed jump. Then he let out a long breath, murmuring, "What a good little chicken."
This time there was no sarcasm, only a touch of recognition.
It didn't know that its vanity had just saved its whole bloodline from cannibalism. But that stubbornness made John feel oddly relieved.
The pot on the stove had cooled, faint aroma still lingering. Outside, the red blur kept rising and falling, scattering specks of light across the cement.
John stood in the doorway, hand on the frame, eyes following. His chest sank and rose with a vague, uneasy hunch. He shook his head, refusing to think further.
Out in the yard, Little Fire kept flapping hard, stubborn as ever, continuing its half-finished journey to fly.