Eerie, Indiana fanfiction: Equinox
Written for the Spring Equinox challenge here at eerie_indiana as well as the Easter Bunny challenge at fffc
Lodgepoole was dismantling the drainage system beneath the Eerie Poultry Farm for the sixth time in four months when the sun moved directly over the planet's equator, and the equinox began. Every single egg in the place stood up on it's broad end and started vibrating. A high-pitched drone rose from the plastic egg trays, at first so high and faint as to be right on the edge of Lodgepoole's faded hearing, but rapidly increasing in volume.
This would be the point at which Al started running, trusting instincts honed over decades of misappropriating bric-a-brac from people who might object to his doing so to keep him alive. But Lodgepoole had spent the better part of his existence underground, pruning back on humanity's excesses, and so he merely stood and stared and wondered if he should contact Head Office, and if he even could, now that he'd been demoted.
Which is why he was still rooted in place and ankle-deep in effluvia when a six foot tall, pastel-purple bunny rabbit crashed through the corrugated-iron roof above him, bounced off the industrial egg-washer, scrabbled to regain its balance on the smooth metal, and dropped a dozen grass nests onto the factory floor.
"Fuck my life," said the Easter Bunny, crouching on it's strong hind legs and examining the fallen nests where they lay. It spotted Lodgepoole and turned it's head from side to side to examine him with eyes ringed in azure-blue fur.
"Hey there, friend," it called, extending one clawed paw. "I seem to have mislaid my Easter forms. Be a pal and pass them up this way, would you?"
Years of selfless devotion warred with the very recent loss of position in Lodgepoole's breast. His internal conflict had to take an abrupt back seat, however, as a tremendous commotion came from outside the building. It sounded as though someone - or something - was trying to kick it's way into the laying sheds, and wasn't far off succeeding.
"Hurry up!" said the Easter bunny. "That mad bastard's after taking his nests back, and if I don't hit my chocolate egg quota this year, I'm a pretty pastel pelt on the back of a settee in Eostre's lodge. Help me out here." It glanced in the direction of the noise. Lodgepoole did the same, and the sight of sheet metal bending and buckling spurred him to action. Smearing filth and feathers across the floor, he moved as quickly as his arthritic bones would allow towards the little bundles of grass and twigs.
"Quick as you like, mate," hissed the Easter bunny, grabbing the proffered nests and shovelling them inside a large wicker basket slung over one incongruously human arm. It slipped down from it's perch atop the egg washer and began emptying crates of white and brown hen's eggs into the basket along with the nests.
Lodgepoole, who had felt himself somewhat overtaken by events thus far, tried to regain control of the situation.
"Excuse me, young man," he said, in the tone he usually reserved for unscheduled Code Fives hiding inside old-fashioned luggage, "But just exactly what are you doing here?"
The Easter bunny stopped stealing for a moment and looked at him. His muzzle was a very pale green and his long ears bent outwards and down at the tips.
"I'm harvesting Easter eggs," it said, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. Perhaps it was, from the point of view of an anthropomorphic lagomorph. "I've got until the equinox ends to pick as many eggs as possible, bed them down in March Hare nests, and take them back to the Springlands where they'll hatch into chocolate." It brushed one velvet-soft ear with a paw, and shook Lodgepoole's hand with the other. "Now, thanks for the help, but I need to get a move on if I'm to make a half-decent chocolate crop this year."
It waved a cheery farewell, crouched low, and with a powerful thrust, propelled itself into the shadowy rafters overhead, disappearing from site with a faint chime of seasonal magic.
Lodgepoole looked down at his palm. There was a small glittering egg there, dappled with candyfloss pink and summer-sky blue, and smelling like the old-fashioned candy stores he remembered from his youth.
He tucked it away in his cardigan pocket, turned, and walked out of the factory, holding the door open for the March Hare as it stormed past.
Lodgepoole was dismantling the drainage system beneath the Eerie Poultry Farm for the sixth time in four months when the sun moved directly over the planet's equator, and the equinox began. Every single egg in the place stood up on it's broad end and started vibrating. A high-pitched drone rose from the plastic egg trays, at first so high and faint as to be right on the edge of Lodgepoole's faded hearing, but rapidly increasing in volume.
This would be the point at which Al started running, trusting instincts honed over decades of misappropriating bric-a-brac from people who might object to his doing so to keep him alive. But Lodgepoole had spent the better part of his existence underground, pruning back on humanity's excesses, and so he merely stood and stared and wondered if he should contact Head Office, and if he even could, now that he'd been demoted.
Which is why he was still rooted in place and ankle-deep in effluvia when a six foot tall, pastel-purple bunny rabbit crashed through the corrugated-iron roof above him, bounced off the industrial egg-washer, scrabbled to regain its balance on the smooth metal, and dropped a dozen grass nests onto the factory floor.
"Fuck my life," said the Easter Bunny, crouching on it's strong hind legs and examining the fallen nests where they lay. It spotted Lodgepoole and turned it's head from side to side to examine him with eyes ringed in azure-blue fur.
"Hey there, friend," it called, extending one clawed paw. "I seem to have mislaid my Easter forms. Be a pal and pass them up this way, would you?"
Years of selfless devotion warred with the very recent loss of position in Lodgepoole's breast. His internal conflict had to take an abrupt back seat, however, as a tremendous commotion came from outside the building. It sounded as though someone - or something - was trying to kick it's way into the laying sheds, and wasn't far off succeeding.
"Hurry up!" said the Easter bunny. "That mad bastard's after taking his nests back, and if I don't hit my chocolate egg quota this year, I'm a pretty pastel pelt on the back of a settee in Eostre's lodge. Help me out here." It glanced in the direction of the noise. Lodgepoole did the same, and the sight of sheet metal bending and buckling spurred him to action. Smearing filth and feathers across the floor, he moved as quickly as his arthritic bones would allow towards the little bundles of grass and twigs.
"Quick as you like, mate," hissed the Easter bunny, grabbing the proffered nests and shovelling them inside a large wicker basket slung over one incongruously human arm. It slipped down from it's perch atop the egg washer and began emptying crates of white and brown hen's eggs into the basket along with the nests.
Lodgepoole, who had felt himself somewhat overtaken by events thus far, tried to regain control of the situation.
"Excuse me, young man," he said, in the tone he usually reserved for unscheduled Code Fives hiding inside old-fashioned luggage, "But just exactly what are you doing here?"
The Easter bunny stopped stealing for a moment and looked at him. His muzzle was a very pale green and his long ears bent outwards and down at the tips.
"I'm harvesting Easter eggs," it said, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. Perhaps it was, from the point of view of an anthropomorphic lagomorph. "I've got until the equinox ends to pick as many eggs as possible, bed them down in March Hare nests, and take them back to the Springlands where they'll hatch into chocolate." It brushed one velvet-soft ear with a paw, and shook Lodgepoole's hand with the other. "Now, thanks for the help, but I need to get a move on if I'm to make a half-decent chocolate crop this year."
It waved a cheery farewell, crouched low, and with a powerful thrust, propelled itself into the shadowy rafters overhead, disappearing from site with a faint chime of seasonal magic.
Lodgepoole looked down at his palm. There was a small glittering egg there, dappled with candyfloss pink and summer-sky blue, and smelling like the old-fashioned candy stores he remembered from his youth.
He tucked it away in his cardigan pocket, turned, and walked out of the factory, holding the door open for the March Hare as it stormed past.