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Description
Day 5: Mother Bird
Word Count: 300

"You were right to call me in. This is just… wow."

"Right. I didn't believe she was a threat to herself or others, as long as no other was being a threat to her, and I felt this phenomenon was worth further scrutiny." The speaker was a psychotherapist from the Federation Military Psychiatric Support Corps, a woman of indeterminate age. Her companion was her superior, an older man who was Division Chief for the corps.

"And what led up to this?"

"Standard PTSD cleansing session. I put her in a trance, and then… oh, here, see for yourself." She keyed a recording onto the monitor. A younger woman was on-screen, sitting dazed in a chair in front of a trance-inducing ray. "They need me!" the woman yelled, suddenly becoming animated.

"Who does?" the psychiatrist asked, but the woman just leapt to her feet and tore out of the room.

The video ended, going back to a live feed. "And then she ran into the office dining room, cleared the place out, and now this."

"Interesting. Theories?"

"Orphaned at a young age, something must have cross-wired in her imprinting; avian upbringing, avian blood infusion. It could be mental, it could be genetic, or something in between."

"Indeed," the Division Chief agreed.

They quietly observed the feed. In another room in the building, now securely cordoned off, the young woman was carefully perched on a table. She was a pretty woman, tall and athletic with a blonde ponytail and skin-fitting blue biosuit that showed off her curves. She sat above a tablecloth done up into a neat nest, cradling a dozen eggs pillaged from the office refrigerator. She sat on them lovingly, protectively, drawing on a deep-seated and long-suppressed desire to emulate her foster family.

"It's okay. Mother is here for you."

Description
Day 5: Mother Bird
Word Count: 300

"You were right to call me in. This is just… wow."

"Right. I didn't believe she was a threat to herself or others, as long as no other was being a threat to her, and I felt this phenomenon was worth further scrutiny." The speaker was a psychotherapist from the Federation Military Psychiatric Support Corps, a woman of indeterminate age. Her companion was her superior, an older man who was Division Chief for the corps.

"And what led up to this?"

"Standard PTSD cleansing session. I put her in a trance, and then… oh, here, see for yourself." She keyed a recording onto the monitor. A younger woman was on-screen, sitting dazed in a chair in front of a trance-inducing ray. "They need me!" the woman yelled, suddenly becoming animated.

"Who does?" the psychiatrist asked, but the woman just leapt to her feet and tore out of the room.

The video ended, going back to a live feed. "And then she ran into the office dining room, cleared the place out, and now this."

"Interesting. Theories?"

"Orphaned at a young age, something must have cross-wired in her imprinting; avian upbringing, avian blood infusion. It could be mental, it could be genetic, or something in between."

"Indeed," the Division Chief agreed.

They quietly observed the feed. In another room in the building, now securely cordoned off, the young woman was carefully perched on a table. She was a pretty woman, tall and athletic with a blonde ponytail and skin-fitting blue biosuit that showed off her curves. She sat above a tablecloth done up into a neat nest, cradling a dozen eggs pillaged from the office refrigerator. She sat on them lovingly, protectively, drawing on a deep-seated and long-suppressed desire to emulate her foster family.

"It's okay. Mother is here for you."