Greg hid behind the pile of grain, remaining completely stationary. He was using his unparalleled stealth abilities to spy on the two men exiting the hovercar. That, and he felt that movement was beyond him at the moment. He may have crossed a reasonable threshold in his eating.

Oh god, my stomach. The goose groaned and out a hacking cough, then winced in more pain.

Oh god, my head! The goose was reminded of the headache he had been ignoring and let out a piteous whine.

One of the two men turned his way. He looked youngish, but his face was also marred with scars. Burn scars.

“What are you looking at?” The other asked, a grey haired man with a scruffy beard.

“Nothing.” Scarface responded immediately, turning away from the undetectable Greg. “Doesn’t look like anyone survived.” His eyes scanned the wreckage before turning back to his partner. “We should leave.”

“Seriously?” Scruffy shook his head in disbelief. “We have to-”

“Make a report. I know” Scarface cut him off, then gestured to the fires. “The house burned down, the farmer died. Report finished.”

Scruffy scratched his head. “That’s…” He paused, thinking of how to say it. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m liking the change in attitude. It’s just... we’ve literally done nothing. We have to at least pretend to do the job, right? Else we’re just asking for punishment detail.”

The two wore red uniforms, heavily kitted out with rifles strapped to the back of their body armour and a sidearm on their hip. The side of the hovercar read ‘CMP,’ Canadian Mounted Police, the ‘Royal’ having been struck from the name after the fall of Britain.

Greg let out a minor sigh of relief. These were compatriots! Fellow practitioners in the trade of justice!

“I have a bad feeling is all” Scarface looked at the grain pile, eyes passing over Greg. Such stealth! “Just... let’s split up, you take the fires, I take the perimeter.”

“Alright, don’t worry kid, no matter what happens here, I don’t think the bulk of the paperwork falls on us.” Scruffy clapped Scarface on the shoulder then headed towards the building on fire. As soon as he was out of sight, Scarface made a beeline to the victim.

Greg shifted out of his cover and slowly crept up, mostly slow because he didn’t want to jostle his stomach. He was still a very sick goose.

Scarface knelt down and moved his hand to the female goose’s chest. Greg honked in panic. He couldn’t let him disturb the evidence!

Well, Greg had already, but it offended his sensibilities much more when he saw someone else doing it!

Scarface turned his head, unsurprised to see Greg but still wary. He put his hands up calmly, indicating he wasn’t going for his weapon.

“Did you… know her?” The hesitation evident in the young man’s voice

“Nope! Just here to solve the case.” Greg honked back.

The man’s eyebrows rose. “Can you… speak?”

“Yes?” Greg stated, head turning sideways at the pure obliviousness that question required.

Scarface looked at him with pity. “You understand me, though?” The man responded, seeming to somehow misinterpret a yes or no answer. Greg nodded anyway, and Scarface let out a sad sigh. “With the blue feathers, I thought as much. Not many of those left anymore.” Greg inclined his head nobly, not knowing what the man was talking about but easily taking it as a compliment.

“I’m here to solve the case!” Greg reiterated in case Scarface forgot.

“I uhhh… don’t speak goose?” He responded, unsure. Greg looked at him, askance.

“Whyever not? It’s a wonderful language!” Greg was mildly offended! He had, at some point, decided to learn English despite his assumedly busy schedule as a goose detective. It was only fair that law enforcement on the human side of the aisle did the same. But this young man...

Kids these days. Greg shook his head No respect for their-

He immediately regretted the decision to shake his head when nausea overtook him.

Pain! Grain pain! Brain pain!

After some minor hacking and hissing, he got back to business. “Well, I guess I can teach you a bit.” He replied generously. “What can you tell me about the victim?” Greg waddled over to the corpse.

Scarface’s confusion remained, not quite getting the message. Greg sighed, then motioned for him to come over with a wing.

Scarface obliged and knelt down. He pointed at the entry wound.

“This was done by a shotgun.” Greg saw tiny pellets littering the beautiful… enticing--At the last second, he was able to stop himself from ruining the evidence for the third time. Scarface continued. “A weak one. Likely for hunting.” The officer hesitantly offered, perhaps a bit off put by the fact he was talking to a goose. “You can see by the lack of exit wounds.”

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Ah, that’s what I thought.” Greg lamented. “Incredibly concerning.”

Now that foxes had added shotguns to their arsenal, his people would be in danger even in the skies. He would have to find their den, peck out some eyes. Teach those orange bastards a lesson about not fucking around with nature’s true apex predator.

Now, it would also matter how the beasts operated the weapons. Did they develop opposable thumbs, allowing for individual use? Or the more likely situation, did they mount weaponry on one’s back and have another fire? Either would be troubling, but a team would be challenging to take down alone. He might need to get outside help.

A footstep came down directly behind Greg, and terror coursed through his veins. The foxes had the jump on him! Greg turned with hate, malice and bloodlust that had been forged through centuries of violent conflict. He let out a bestial hiss. “BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD- Oh hi Scruffy! Long time no see!” Greg waved a wing at the wide eyed man.

“Fucking hell Dylan, why are you talking to a goose? Why did it start charging me!” Scruffy demanded.

Dylan seemed even more shaken than Scruffy, his hands gone to his head. Arms shaking and breathing heavy. “Holy shit, holy shit that was almost so bad….” He gathered himself and met Scuffy’s eyes. “Geese are territorial Terry. Very. Never sneak up on one.” Greg nodded sagely.

So true! He had been ready to deliver unspeakable horrors on that man’s entire bloodline! Misunderstandings can be so silly like that.

“Well, it seems to have taken a liking to you anyway.” He gave Dylan a sly look then reached for his pistol. “Fifty-fifty?”

Greg didn’t quite understand, but Dylan only took a second. “No! No, Terry, his eyes! Didn’t you see his eyes!” Dylan said, desperate, but his words explained nothing.

“It’s a blue.” Terry laughed without mirth. “Those poor bastards were barely sentient. I’d honestly be doing it a favour.” He glanced at Greg. “I don’t think it even knows what’s happening.”

Greg tried to put a thoughtful look on his face to disprove the very true statement.

“I’m trying to say that we don’t shoot geese! Ever.”

Greg had to agree with Dylan’s passionate statements philosophically. Greg wouldn’t like to be shot! On a practical level though? Greg was here because someone did shoot a goose. He admired Dylan’s ideals, but his grip on reality here was lacking.

“No one will know, Dylan. It has been a long time since I had meat.” Terry undid the clasp on his holster.

Greg looked around, wary, sensing the oncoming danger. Terry must’ve seen a skulking fox.

“We don’t shoot geese, Terry.” Dylan’s voice had steel in it, previous uncertainty being replaced with resolve.

Damn it, Dylan! This is not the time for philosophy!

“No one needs to know.” Terry rolled his eyes, and the gun came out. Greg turned in panic. The fox must be close! He ran and flapped his wings to get lift.

He’d cover the air. They’d cover the ground. Textbook tactics!

If Greg could remember how to fly.

Bullets whizzed by him as he crashed back to the ground. Terry had excellent covering fire! Greg was about to stand up when he heard the sound of a bullet entering flesh.

They had hit the fox! They had-

Oh no.

Terry was on the ground, unmoving. Ash underneath being stained red. Dylan stood pale faced, hands shaking. A smoking gun in his hand. Greg went up to Terry, trying to find a pulse. There was none.

“NOOOOO!” Greg let out a mournful cry for the second time that day. “He’s dead… I can’t believe he’s dead.

Tears came to his eyes. Why had Greg failed so soon? His eyes turned to Dylan, frantic.

“We don’t shoot geese.” Dylan spoke quietly, in a shaky voice. A few tears in his eyes as well. Greg ran and jumped, body slamming into Dylan. Bringing the man to the ground.

“Stay down! They’re still-” Greg couldn’t hold his sickness anymore, not after all this bumping and crashing! He puked on Dylan’s chest. “...Sorry. Uhh… just stay down alright.”

Greg rolled off his chest, keeping close to the ground in fear of stray bullets. He stared at the body of Terry, making another silent promise. Doubly committed to bringing the killers to justice, he glared out into the menacing field concealing any number of dangers. All he could do was sigh.

“Damn foxes.”