Pigeons as Spies

Pigeons are the laziest design in the city. A gray texture, seamless noise. Living pixels against a concrete background. No one counts them, because counting pigeons is like counting cracks in the asphalt. And then someone says, "pigeons are spies." You laugh. Of course you laugh. What else is there to do? Because it sounds like trash from the internet, assembled out of sleep deprivation and cheap coffee.
But the problem is that the thought doesn't die. It sticks, like a song you never wanted to memorize. Pigeons are ideal for not raising suspicion. They're everywhere. No one is interested in them, and they see everyone at once. And this is where the unpleasant part begins-you don't want to believe it, but you allow that maybe it isn't a completely idiotic theory. And exactly at that moment, someone is writing a report to the Ministry of Truth, while a small gray creature proudly pecks at crumbs on his desk with the feeling of a job perfectly done.
In this city, everything has long been watching everything else: cameras, screens, people, algorithms. Why not add a couple more wings with feathers to that? A pigeon takes off, makes a circle over the square, and lands on a wire. Hundreds of others sit nearby-they are like notes on the sheet music of reality. You lift your head. It turns its own toward you. In that moment you suddenly realize you don't feel like laughing anymore.
And you step sharply to the side so the rat with wings won't ruin your reputation with the compromising material planted under its tail.