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The Agent had, for once, managed to sleep through the entire night without interruption. This was rare—usually, her nights were filled with late-night smoke breaks or early-morning scavenging missions for food in the barren New Mexico desert. Out here, even scraping together a snack was an ordeal. Bugs, lizards, cactus fruit, seeds… she’d become the master of “gourmet” desert dining. But tonight, the Agent slept, nestled and cooing softly, her raspy conure voice mingling with the distant sounds of the desert.
Just as the sun began to sneak over the horizon, a shadow loomed above her. The Agent’s eyes blinked open slowly, her vision blurry, but there was no mistaking the flash of blue and red overhead. Her sight came into focus on the Doctor, a sky-blue ringneck parrot with piercing, unblinking eyes, her pupils dilating in the light. The Agent jolted but quickly disguised it with a weary smirk.
“...Bonjour,” she muttered, pulling herself up and adjusting her dark gray mask that hid all but her eyes and beak. She rubbed the side of her head, trying to shake off the grogginess. When was the last time she’d slept this long?
“Guten Morgen, mädchenhaft!” chirped the Doctor, her voice a cheerful contrast to her unnervingly direct stare. Her accent was unmistakably German, and she always carried herself with an air of clinical curiosity that was half-adorable, half-disturbing.
“We’ve got a meeting today at the old quarry,” the Doctor continued, cocking her head to one side. “Quite important, you know. I thought it’d be wise to wake you.”
“How considerate,” the Agent mumbled, still groggy. She swatted at the air, barely missing the Doctor’s inquisitive gaze.
“Ach, it’s rare to see you sleep so soundly,” the Doctor observed, her voice lilting with both sweetness and curiosity. “Did you have any dreams, perhaps?”
“No, just sleep. Now, let’s get on with it, oie idiote.” The Agent muttered a teasing insult, though her energy remained barely above a whisper.
“Perfect! Then you’re all ready for the flight!” The Doctor declared with excessive enthusiasm, flapping her wings and shooting into the air with a cry of, “See you there, freundin!”
With a heavy sigh, the Agent watched the energetic ringneck disappear into the sky before sluggishly following suit, heading northward in the direction of the quarry.
After a tiring 45-minute flight, she landed at the meeting point, where the Doctor was already perched, bright-eyed and preening. The Agent’s grogginess clung to her like the desert dust.
“Ah, Agent! Rough night, eh?” called a familiar Scottish voice from the left. This was her best friend, the Vandal—a fellow green-cheeked conure with a different color variant. The Agent’s cinnamon hues contrasted with the Vandal’s brightly colored yellow-sided feathers. They looked like two sides of the same mischievous coin.
“Actually, Vandal, I slept surprisingly well,” the Agent replied, stretching her wings and legs. “Where are the others?” she asked, glancing at the Doctor.
“Running late, as usual. Some creatures just aren’t cut out for mornings,” the Doctor replied, her beak curling into a smug smile. Just then, the unmistakable sound of clumsy wingbeats and squawks grew louder, and two familiar figures crashed down behind them.
“We’re here!” panted the Artilleryman, his Russian accent as heavy as his landing. A white-faced cockatiel with a mohawk that stood as high as his pride... Which wasn't very high in the first place, the Artilleryman was catching his breath as the last member of their team landed beside him. The Assassin—a marbled yellow and gray cockatiel—touched down gracefully, his Aussie twang cutting through the morning quiet.
“Oi, nice to see ya, ladies!” he chirped.
“Right on time,” the Doctor announced, clapping her gloved wings together. “Let’s get started. Follow me.”
As they trailed after the Doctor, the Artilleryman tugged at his fingerless gloves, having just slipped them back on post-landing. The Agent, meanwhile, lit a cigarette and tucked it into her beak, inhaling deeply.
“So, how’d you two sleep?” she asked, casting a glance at the Assassin and Artilleryman.
The Assassin answered before the Artilleryman could open his beak. “He slept like a rock, as usual, mate!” he snickered. “I got my shut-eye too, no worries.”
The Artilleryman gave a bashful nod. “And you, Agent?” he asked, his head tilted in curiosity.
“Pretty good, actually,” she replied, blowing a trail of smoke from her beak.
The Doctor, who’d been leading the way, suddenly stopped and spun around, glaring at the Agent. “No smoking, Agent! That stuff is dreadful for your lungs, ja?” She waggled her wing disapprovingly, expecting the cigarette to be immediately snuffed out.
Grumbling under her breath, the Agent stomped it into the dirt, muttering something to the Vandal, who snickered in response, adjusting her beanie and eyepatch as she did so. The others didn't seem to hear what the Agent had mumbled. The group stumbled to a halt as they arrived at their usual “conference area”—a large, flat rock that doubled as a table.
The birds all settled around it, some preening, others tapping talons in anticipation.
“So, where to begin?” The Doctor murmured thoughtfully, tapping her chin with a gloved wing. Her eyes sparkled with dramatic flair as if she’d remembered something vital.
“Ah, ja! Today’s agenda…” she began, her voice taking on a conspiratorial tone, while the others leaned in with varying levels of curiosity and skepticism.
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