Plank walls stained deep brown, low ceiling beamed with simple timbers, two stubby roost bars mounted like a ladder on the left wall. Centered at the back sits a narrow shelf unit divided into three nesting cubbies. The floor’s covered in flattened straw and wood shavings, uneven underfoot, with two shallow bowls set directly on it. Morning light struggles through the wire-mesh opening. Corners stay shadowed; wood grain shows deep and dark. Burnt clay coats my throat with every breath.

We’re all inside now—Bertram, Aldous, “Threadscar” Melissa, Rill, and me, crowded into this glorified chicken prison. Five birds occupy the gloom: a black pullet with a crooked neck making tiny ceramic clicks from her beak, dust clinging to her pinfeathers like kiln sweepings. A copper-backed rooster with an impressive tail immediately positions himself between us and the other chickens, broad chest out like he’s got a chance. A buff hen with a startlingly pale face pecks the same exact spot in the litter, obsessive and drooping. A tiny slate-blue bantam circles the back corner.

And at the center: the speckled hen. Large, holding unnaturally still, staring straight ahead despite five humans invading her space.

The coop door scrapes shut, but the latch doesn’t catch. A finger-width gap of light. Bertram glances back at it, then scans the interior, jaw tight.

“This chicken coop of yours is way gloomier than it has any right to be,” he says.

Aldous moves closer, containment vessel cradled like glass.

“The gloom’s not aesthetic, Bertram. It’s symptomatic. The burnt-clay smell, the dim light, the way the roosting bars look wrong even though nothing’s physically changed—that’s all bleed-through from what’s anchored in the flock. Vespera, we’re starting with the speckled hen. I need you to position her exactly one handspan from the vessel’s opening when I give the word.”

The black pullet recenters its crooked neck with a sharp twitch. Click, click, click from the beak.

Melissa shifts beside me, moving into position without crowding my space. Support stance—sparring distance. Close enough to intervene.

The buff hen moves slowly across the litter, drooping like she’s sick, letting out soft clucks with a dry rasp underneath.

I move toward the speckled hen, keeping my movements fluid and deliberate. That clean focus I get before violence kicks in—except this time it’s aggressive chicken handling for occult pottery.

“I’ll hold her steady when you’re ready, Aldous,” I say, closing the distance smoothly. “Just tell me when to position her.”

The speckled hen holds that unnatural stillness, staring ahead while a milky film slides across her eyes—a second lid, slow and wrong.

Then, she jerks sideways, whole body yanked like an invisible wire pulled her. Her head swivels with mechanical precision, scanning. Seeking a target.

The hen’s eyes lock onto Melissa, and I catch the detail I missed before: concentric rings in the iris, like growth rings in cut wood. The gaze holds. Something passes between the hen and the veteran. Pressure drop before a storm.

Melissa doesn’t flinch. Her jaw sets, eyes narrowing, and whatever spiritual rot the hen’s pushing at her hits resistance. The veteran stands her ground.

The copper-backed rooster explodes into motion. Plants himself beside the speckled hen. His beak opens. Burnt clay rolls out on his breath—I taste it.

Then he lunges at Rill. The rooster jumps, surprisingly high for something that size, and drives his beak straight into Rill’s torso. Right over her heart. The impact lands wet and precise.

Rill staggers back. Her face registers the pain in a tight grimace, but her eyes stay locked on the rooster. Combat-ready despite the blood starting to seep through her linen tunic.

The black pullet’s making excited clicks now, rapid-fire ceramic taps that echo off the coop walls.

The slate-blue bantam explodes from the back corner, tiny legs churning through litter. She launches herself at Melissa, but the veteran sidesteps clean. The bantam’s beak snaps shut on empty air.

The buff hen, who’s been pecking obsessively at the same spot this whole time, suddenly lifts her head. Looks around like she’s just waking up. Then something clicks behind those pale eyes and she snaps alert.

She charges Bertram. The buff hen lunges with more speed than her drooping posture suggested possible, beak aimed at his face. Bertram throws his hands up, stumbling back—the hen overshoots, loses her balance completely, and hits the ground in a tumble of dusty feathers.

Bertram’s got his pipe out now, pulled from under his apron, gripped like a club.

“This was an ambush!” He edges closer to the fallen bird, keeping the pipe raised. “I guess the saying is true—no plan survives contact with the enemy!”

He drops down, gets his hands on the buff hen before she can right herself, and pins her. She thrashes but he’s got weight and leverage.

Aldous moves immediately. Not rushed—methodical. He crosses to Bertram and the restrained hen with the containment vessel still cradled carefully, his eyes already assessing angles and positioning.

“Bertram, keep holding her. I’m going to help her upright, and then we’re doing the extraction immediately while you’ve got her restrained. This is the best chance we’ll get.”

He sets the vessel down carefully, then gets his hands under the buff hen’s body. They wrestle the buff hen upright, Bertram maintaining his grip while Aldous adjusts her position with almost ritualistic precision.

Melissa lunges forward, going for the copper-backed rooster—the biggest active threat now that Bertram has the buff restrained. But the coop erupts into chaos of wings and movement. The speckled hen jerks sideways exactly as Melissa commits, the rooster pivots, and suddenly they’ve traded positions in that split-second scramble.

Melissa’s hands close around the speckled hen. She pins the wings tight against the bird’s body with both hands, adjusting her grip with practiced efficiency.

“Got her instead.” Melissa’s voice cuts through the noise, steady. “Aldous, proceed with your extraction. I’ll hold this one.”

The speckled hen thrashes, and that wrongness radiating from her intensifies. I can feel it like heat off sun-baked stone.

The rooster’s loose. He’s already drawn blood. Melissa’s got the primary anchor, Bertram’s locked down the buff—I need to handle this copper-backed bastard.

I move toward him, smooth and deliberate. I go in like I would in a clinch—hands sure, wings pinned, no room for him to spin. Mrow, let’s see if restraining a possessed chicken gives me the same edge as actual combat.

The rooster sees me coming. His head snaps toward me, tailfeathers flaring, and he sidesteps with surprising speed. I adjust my angle, reach for him, but he evades. Clean pivot, low to the ground, and he’s out of range before my hands close on feathers.

Rill, blood seeping through her tunic where the rooster pierced her, lunges forward. She’s going for him with both hands extended, trying to pin his wings the way Melissa demonstrated with the speckled hen.

The copper-backed rooster twists away from her too, wings beating hard. Rill’s hands grasp at empty air, and the rooster plants himself three feet back, chest out, guarding the space between us and Melissa’s captive.

The speckled hen’s thrashing intensifies. Melissa’s got solid grip, wings pinned tight, but the hen twists with unnatural strength, and the veteran’s hands slip just enough. The hen wrenches free, tumbling to the litter in an explosion of dust and burnt-clay stench.

The copper-backed rooster sees it. His head snaps toward the escaped hen, and then he’s airborne, launching himself straight at Melissa with focused rage. He drives his beak into her torso, right over the ribs. The impact makes a dull thud against her leather cuirass. Melissa doesn’t even flinch.

Movement from the shadows. The slate-blue bantam rushes out, tiny and fast, making a beeline for Bertram. She launches herself at him, beak aimed for exposed skin, but Bertram shifts his weight without losing his grip on the buff hen. The bantam’s strike goes wide, her beak snapping shut on empty air.

The buff hen thrashes harder, clucking with that raspy edge, losing feathers as she strains against Bertram’s hold. He pins her tighter. She can’t break free.

The tanner keeps his eyes narrowed, head angled to the side like he’s expecting another strike.

“Aldous,” he says, steady despite the bantam circling for another pass, “I would appreciate if you extracted whatever you need to extract out of this one, my friend.”

Aldous positions the vessel one handspan from the buff hen’s head. Hands steady despite the burnt-clay choke.

“Bertram, she’s going to thrash when the extraction engages. Don’t let go, don’t adjust your grip. The gradient forms along geometric lines and any movement breaks the pattern.” His eyes sweep the coop without moving his head. “Eyes away from the opening. I’m starting now.”

He shifts the vessel’s opening closer to the hen’s face. The buff hen starts shuddering immediately—not normal thrashing but something deeper, tremors running through her entire body. A prolonged screech escapes her throat, high and wrong.

The struggle lasts seconds but feels stretched. The hen convulses, Bertram holds firm, Aldous keeps the vessel positioned with mathematical precision—and then it’s done. The buff hen goes limp in Bertram’s grip, the wrongness bleeding out of her. Whatever corruption was anchored in that bird, it’s in the vessel now.

Melissa crosses the distance to the speckled hen in three strides. She gets her hands around the bird before she can scramble away—pins the wings against the body with both hands.

The hen thrashes, making garbled sounds that don’t belong in any chicken’s throat, but the Melissa’s grip holds.

The copper-backed rooster is still the biggest threat. I’m free to handle him.

I lunge forward, hands extended to grab him before he can attack anyone else. The rooster pivots. I reach for him, but my boot catches something in the litter, uneven wood shavings or straw, and my ankle rolls. I’m going down fast, hands grasping at empty air as the ground rushes up.

I hit the floor hard. Dust and burnt clay smell explode around me. The impact knocks the breath halfway out of my lungs.

The rooster, three feet away, broad chest puffed and tailfeathers flared, clucks territorial. His head swivels, sizing up opponents.

To my right, Rill lunges forward, going for the rooster with both hands extended. She’s trying to pin his wings against his body the way Melissa showed us. The rooster twists away from her. He’s out of range before her hands close on feathers. Rill doesn’t hesitate. She goes after him again.

The rooster launches himself at her. He flies straight for her chest—same heart region where her tunic’s already bloodstained. His beak drives into her flesh with unnatural accuracy, piercing through the linen again. I hear the wet impact even from the ground.

Rill staggers but doesn’t go down. Her jaw sets tight against the pain.

The kink-necked black pullet is suddenly right there, five feet from my face. Her crooked neck cants hard to the left, and she locks eyes with me.

Click, click, click. Sharp ceramic sounds from her beak, rapid-fire and wrong.

Pressure blooms behind my eyes—cold, invasive. I brace, and it slides off like rain on stone. The pullet backs away, clicks slowing.

From the back corner—the slate-blue bantam rushes out. She launches herself at Aldous, beak aimed for exposed skin. Aldous sidesteps without looking at her directly. The bantam lands in the dust.

The buff hen shakes her head in Bertram’s grip, confused, trying weakly to free herself. The extraction pulled the wrongness out, left her just a regular chicken trying to escape a human’s hold. Bertram struggles to scramble to his feet.

“Everyone still alive?” He glances around the coop. “What feathered demon are we handling next?”

He spots me on the ground, and his eyebrows go up. He rushes over, reaches down, grabs me by the front of my shirt even though that hand is still holding his pipe. The buff hen squawks indignantly under his arm.

“Floor ain’t made of catnip as far as I know, miss. Get up.”

He hauls me to my feet with more force than finesse. I find my balance, dust and wood shavings clinging to my clothes.

Aldous crosses to Melissa and the speckled hen, vessel cradled carefully, eyes already calculating angles.

He positions the containment vessel exactly one handspan from the hen’s head, where those growth-ring eyes show whatever corruption runs deepest. His hands stay steady despite the chaos still churning around us.

“Melissa, hold her firm—this is the primary vector.” His voice cuts through the burnt-clay stench without rising in volume. “The extraction will fight harder than the buff hen’s did. Don’t adjust your grip no matter how she thrashes. Eyes away. I’m extracting now.”

The speckled hen’s body goes rigid in Melissa’s grip. Then she screeches—garbled, wrong, a sound that would require vocal cords no chicken should possess. The screech scrapes against the inside of my skull like metal on glass.

Her body spasms. Not the panicked thrashing of a restrained bird—something stronger than her frame should allow. Wings strain with unnatural force. The veteran’s grip holds, tension cording through her scarred forearms.

The struggle stretches. The hen convulses, that screech rising and falling in waves that make my teeth ache. Aldous keeps the vessel positioned steady as a fixture.

Then it’s done. The wrongness bleeds out of the hen like heat dissipating into cold air. She goes limp in Melissa’s grip. Just a bird now. The burnt-clay smell doesn’t fade but the pressure it carried, that invasive spiritual rot, collapses. Melissa releases her; the hen settles onto the straw-covered floor, docile.

Melissa straightens, turns toward the copper-backed rooster who’s still loose and aggressive, chest puffed and tailfeathers flared.

I lunge for him again, movements sharp and controlled, aiming to pin his wings before he can strike. But the rooster jumps, and I’m grasping at empty air as he lands three feet away. My hands close on nothing.

The speckled hen, clean now, picks her way through the scattered bodies and debris. She avoids Rill, sidesteps Aldous’ boots, and heads straight for the coop’s entrance.

The copper-backed rooster’s head swivels, tracking movement across the coop. His eyes settle on me. That barrel chest puffs wider, hackles flaring rust-red in the dim light, and I can see the exact moment he chooses his target.

He charges. Talons churning through litter, wings half-spread for balance. I sidestep. He adjusts mid-charge, but I pivot. His beak snaps on empty air. Momentum carries him past me in a flurry of copper feathers and burnt-clay stench.

The kink-necked black pullet locks eyes with Melissa. Click, click, click. That spiritual pressure builds again. Melissa’s jaw sets, eyes narrowing. The pressure shatters. The pullet backs away.

The slate-blue bantam explodes from the shadows. Tiny legs pump through the litter as she launches herself at Bertram with surprising height. Her beak drives straight into his head—I hear the impact piercing skin.

Bertram’s hands fly to his skull, still gripping that pipe. He swings it up reflexively and cracks himself in the temple with his own weapon.

“Agh! You feathered cunt!” He releases the buff hen—she drops from under his arm, flapping indignantly to the floor—and presses both hands to his bleeding scalp. “I felt the vibration right through my gray matter!”

The buff hen shakes herself, confused and free, then waddles away.

Aldous moves. That same methodical precision he showed during the extractions, but faster now—crossing the distance to the copper-backed rooster. Not waiting for someone else to handle it.

“Hold still,” he says, reaching for the rooster with both hands angled to pin wings tight against body. “I’m not giving anyone an excuse to kill you when extraction is still possible!”

The rooster twists, wings snapping, and Aldous’ hands close on empty air. The bird plants himself three feet back, chest out, eyeing Aldous with focused aggression.

“Third time’s the charm, you feathered bastard,” I say, closing the distance fast. “Hold still so Aldous can fix you!”

I lunge at the rooster. He sidesteps—my boot catches the litter and I’m down again, dust and burnt clay exploding around me.

Rill’s shifting her attention away from the rooster. Her eyes lock onto the kink-necked black pullet instead, the one who tried to corrupt both me and Melissa with that ceramic-click gaze. She’s done chasing the copper-backed demon.

She lunges at the black pullet with both hands angled to pin its wings tight against its twisted body. The pullet’s neck cants hard to the left, beak opening for another click—but Rill’s already got her. Hands close around the bird, wings pressed flush to her sides before she can cast that corrupting gaze again.

Near the coop entrance, the large speckled hen settles into a corner. She watches the chaos with what looks like concern, head tilting like she can’t figure out why everyone’s so worked up.

The copper-backed rooster jumps, hits the wall with both talons, rebounds off the planks with surprising force, then swoops down on Aldous. Wings spread wide for the dive, beak aimed straight for his chest. The rooster pecks hard—I hear the impact against Aldous’ quilted jerkin, the dull thud of beak hitting padded fabric. The jerkin holds.

The black pullet in Rill’s grip thrashes harder, neck twitching violently, beak clicking against Rill’s hands. She’s trying to free herself with unnatural strength for something that size.

The pullet wrenches free from Rill’s hold, tumbling to the litter in an explosion of dust and that burnt-clay stench. Her crooked neck recenters with a sharp twitch—click, click—and she backs away fast, putting distance between herself and Rill’s hands.

The slate-blue bantam rushes out again from the shadows, tiny legs churning. She launches herself at Aldous, who’s still recovering from the rooster’s chest strike. The bantam’s beak drives into his exposed left arm with surgical precision. I hear the wet sound of piercing flesh.

Aldous grimaces but doesn’t cry out. Blood wells up where the bantam’s beak punctured skin.

The white-faced buff hen spots the coop door. It’s cracked open, light from the yard spilling through the gap. She clucks indignantly, ruffles her pale feathers, then waddles straight for freedom. Pushes through the opening and disappears into Aldous’ yard, leaving the coop behind.

Bertram’s got one hand pressed to his bleeding head where the bantam struck earlier. His eyes sweep the coop floor, searching. Then he spots the slate-blue bantam circling near Aldous’ feet, and his expression tightens.

He lifts his pipe-hand, the carved wood gripped tight despite the blood running down his temple.

“You accursed bunch of misbehaving poultry!”

He throws the pipe hard. It hits the slate-blue bantam square in her torso, enough force to send her tumbling through the litter. She rolls once, then scrambles upright, shaking herself with a chirp.

Aldous is approaching me, quick but controlled despite the blood sliding down his arm. He extends a hand down.

“Up—now. Rooster’s still active. I need your hands functional, not eating straw.”

I grab his hand and he hauls me to my feet. Pulled up again. Mortifying.

Melissa’s already moving, eyes locked on the kink-necked black pullet who’s been circling and clicking since she broke free from Rill’s grip. The veteran’s hands are angled low to pin the pullet’s glossy-black wings tight against her twisted body before she can cast another corrupting gaze.

She’s got her; the pullet thrashes, clicks muffled. But Melissa holds firm.

We’re bleeding for every inch, and I’m still dead weight. Rill’s chest wound seeps through her tunic. Bertram’s holding his head. Aldous’ arm drips.

The rooster’s still loose, barrel chest puffed and guarding his position like he owns this coop. And maybe he does.

The slate-blue bantam is tiny, wounded from Bertram’s thrown pipe. Better odds than the rooster. Smaller target, less dangerous, already hurting. I need to actually succeed at something.

The burnt clay smell coating my nostrils, the straw compressed under my boots, the chaos of wings and bodies and blood. This is what I’m good at. Violence with purpose. The bantam. Pin her tiny wings.

Mrow, fourth time’s the charm.

I move toward the slate-blue bantam, hands angled to grab her before she can dart back into the shadows or attack someone else.

The bantam sees me coming. She jumps—tiny legs pump hard—and twists mid-air. My hands close on empty air where she was a split-second ago. She lands three feet away, shakes her wounded body, and circles toward the shadows.

Movement beside me—Rill lunges at the bantam with both hands extended, going for the same target I just whiffed on. Her chest wound’s still bleeding but her eyes are locked on that tiny slate-blue body with focused determination.

The bantam jumps again. Rill’s hands grasp at feathers. She’s got contact, fingers closing around one wing, but the bantam thrashes hard and Rill’s footing shifts wrong in the litter. She’s going down, hands losing grip as her knees hit the straw-covered floor. The bantam wrenches free and darts away in a blur of slate-blue feathers.

Near the coop entrance, the large speckled hen takes a final look at the chaos. Then she turns and waddles straight through the cracked door, following the white-faced buff hen out into the yard. Two regular chickens escaping the violence.

I’m tracking the bantam’s movement as she circles back toward the shadows, when something massive and copper-backed fills my peripheral vision.

The rooster lunges at me. Lower. He drives his beak straight into my right ass cheek.

Pain explodes sharp and piercing. I feel the beak punch through fabric, through skin, driving deep enough to make everything clench involuntarily.

“Fuck!”

The rooster pulls back, beak dripping, and plants himself three feet away. Chest puffed.

My ass is on fire.

THE END

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Check out this video I generated about this short. I hadn’t laughed that hard in a good while.