Chapter Text
It was a fresh morning in the snowy plains. A thin sunlight shone through the hazy clouds, and overnight, some fresh snow had fallen.
Spring would be here soon. The snow wouldn't lessen by much, but there wuld be a ltitle more sun, and some of the deep-winter crops would be harvestable.
Techno hadn't even known winter crops were a thing until moving out here, but he supposed it should have been unsurprising.
It would be nice being able to do a bit of hunting as well. Some fresh meat would be nice, besides the rabbits Phil sometimes came home with. Perhaps some bear meat, as long as he made sure not to eat it in front of Steve. He was ready for a change of palette.
And soon it would be potato-planting season, and they could have that as well. Maybe he could find some cows this year, that would be really nice. Then they could have pie and cake and all the things you needed milk for, like really good hot chocolate or Christmas eggnog you could shove down the throat of your freeloader basement-dwelling brother.
They could get beef as well, if they had cows.
They didn't have too much, but it was enough. Techno still wanted a little more.
But for now, he had to be content with the chickens. They didn't have too many yet, but it was enough to have chicken soup every so often and have fresh eggs almost daily. A few more months and maybe they could have eggs for every meal if they wanted he was sure of it.
The chickens clucked noisily as Techno opened the doors letting the weak end-of-winter sun into their darker dwelling. He wrinkled his nose--the smell was quite something, but that meant more fertilize. He'd need to clean that up before he left and stock it so it would be ready for use. There was a very smelly shed at the backside of the chicken coops for that.
But before his hands got caked in filth...
He nudged at one of the chickens, and slid out a coupe of white eggs, still warm. He held one up to the light of an overhead window, and smiled. It was a good egg.
"Good girl, Henrietta," he said to the chicken clucking at him. Whatever mixture of feed Phil was giving the chickens lately, it was doing wonders for the quality of their eggs.
Or maybe it was the weather. The chickens had been stuck inside for quite a while, but Phil had let them out into the yard a few times on sunnier days. They probably liked that.
He finished collecting the rest of the produce, and then after a quick trip to put the eggs safely in the kitchen, returned with gloves and a shovel for the less enjoyable part.
At least he got some excercise out of it, he supposed. And when he got back to the house and cleaned up, there would be some nice freshly-cracked scrambled eggs for breakfast.