Peccary Pete: Evaluate whether you wanna be witness to child abuse
Against this incorrigible miscreant? Oh
goodness yes.
Peccary Pete: Check Moves
Once upon a time, you had quite the physical set, but these days you’ve specced mostly into trying your best to forget why you’re here. Except for your backup move. Fortunately, you’ve done a good job making sure you’ve forgotten what your backup is too… until the time comes, that is.
Peccary Pete: reflect upon your crimes
You consider the prospect of considering your crimes for about two seconds before the weight of your conscience becomes unbearable. You really don’t want to be Peccary Pete anymore.
…
You are no longer Peccary Pete.
The good-for-nothing onion fairy didn’t do jack fucking shit for you. Mom’s stomping down the hallway, and she’s coming fast. The warden salutes stiffly as she approaches, sweat beading on his petal-pink forehead.
”Good day, ma’am,” he chokes out. “We’ve got your daughter under watch here. She was found—”
”
Don’t,” Mom snaps, “say another word. I don’t want to hear it from you. I want to hear it right from the beak of my chick.”
Your stomach burns with shame. How are you going to explain this? Is there any way you could phrase it that might make your mother’s fury a little less… incandescent? It doesn’t seem likely. You open your beak, unsure what you’re about to say, but before you can get a word out she shoots you a truly chilling glare and you fall silent. “We will discuss this at
home.”
“Er, I don’t wish to contradict you, ma’am, but your daughter’s sentence was two weeks and she’s only been here—”
”Did you know,” Mom muses, “that on the Mist Continent they serve Mr. Mime as a delicacy? I trained under Chef Hugo there for several months as a girl. It’s true what they say. He really knows his way around a knife.”
The warden swallowed and wordlessly opens your cell. You see Peccary Pete’s ear twitch out of the corner of your eye; that might be the most you’ve ever seen him move.
”Come now, Eschalotte.”
”What about my stuff?” you protest.
”We can get your stuff later. You won’t be needing it for now.”
”But—”
Without warning, your mother seizes you by the feathers and drags you down the hallway and out of the jail.
”Have a good day,” the warden calls after you weakly.
After what feels like a thousand years and most of your hair, you arrive home. Mom releases your feathers at last, and you stumble weakly into the kitchen. You bless your feathers you’re not a mammal—getting your feathers pulled doesn’t hurt too bad, but it’s gonna take
weeks of styling to get your cowlick as tame as it was. And it was not especially tame before.
Mom plops herself down on a stool, chest-feathers fluffed, and crosses her wings. Always with that killing glare.
”Now,” she says, “I would like to hear what exactly it is that landed you in jail
again when I made it quite clear on your silver jubilee that there would
not be another incident like this.”
You gulp, bile burning in your throat. What was it you did?