New Milestone: Cold-blooded Murderer!

You have just completed your first pair of cold-blooded murders! While the first execution was more or less done in the name of survival, you then made the conscious decision to end a fellow sapient’s life. And in decapitating style, too! You don’t know it yet, but one of your victims was a very important person. So congratulations, VIP murderer! You’re not going to need therapy, are you? Because that’s a tall order in this part of the galaxy. Wussy things like mental health aren’t exactly a priority in the Gallic Galactic Conquest, in case you haven’t noticed.

“Yeah, I guess I deserved that one.” I frowned, and let out a deep sigh as I wiped the gore from my eyes with the built in towel that was my forearm. “Well, Dumbass, that was inten—”

“Ba-kawk!”

“What the duck?! Where did that come fr—”

“Ba-kawk!”

“Oh, you’ve done it now, Flappers!” snapped Dumbass. “I know you don’t speak fluent chicken yet, but damn, does your new friend have some choice words for you.”

“What do you mea—”

“Buck-buck-buck-ba-kawk!”

“Here, let me help.”

My foot lashed out and gave Drok’s head a light kick, rolling it over so his face pointed up towards me like false Luke’s did in the dark side cave on Dagobah. His black and dead eyes poking out from the nest of red, bumpy flesh connecting his comb and waddle almost made me feel bad for him. Almost.

“I thought I told you not to control my body like that pond dammit! We’re going to have to establish some ducking ground rules, Dumbass!”

“Sorry, Flap. I thought we already did. And according to my memory of the conversation, I’m allowed to help if you’re being a lame ass. You were, undoubtedly, being a lame ass. Plus, it sounds like what he has to tell you is really important and we are on a bit of a tight schedule. You should pick him up so you can talk face-to-face. Or beak-to-beak. Sorry, I mean beak-to-bill, or whatever.”

“Ba-kawk!”

I rolled my eyes, then reached down and grabbed the head of Drok D’Rumstik by his red buttercup comb. I took a deep breath, made a sideways glance in search of approval towards no one in particular, and lifted him until our eyes were on the same level. “So, Drumstick? What can I do for—”

“Buck-buck-buck-ba-kawk!”

“Haha! I can’t believe you just tried to talk to a severed head!” screamed Dumbass, its mirth having changed the pitch of its voice into a falsetto that would made Robert Plant proud. “He’s obviously dead, you moron! I mean, for duck’s sake, it’s a severed head! A severed. Head!”

“Ba-kawk!”

“You’re an asshole. A real ducking asshole.” Even though I had been the butt of another of Dumbass’s weird jokes, it still made the corner of my bill crack into a smile. The falsetto was very impressive, and flashes of surreal fantasy scenes featuring long-haired men ran through my mind. I shook the reverie away, and I twisted the head from side to side, watching in odd fascination as the muscles around his beak twitched as he got ready to spit another lifeless cluck. “But why is he—”

“Buck-buck-buck.”

“—still clucking and—”

“Buck-bawk!”

I paused, hoping to find an opening to finish my sentence. When a few seconds had passed without a sign of another and outburst, I opened my bill and said, “And—”

“Ba-kawk!”

“Okay, this shit has got to ducking stop. We should try to figure out what to do next, not mess around with a chicken clucking like it got its head cut off.”

“I hate to state the obvious, bro ham. But it did get its head cut off.”

“I ducking know that, Dumbass! What I don’t know is why he’s still—”

“Nerves mostly. That and an insane amount of residual energy left in his implant. I can feel the connection with the sim crackling from here. It's like drifting close to a wireless charging pad with sixty cycle hum. Honestly, he was so charged up and ready to kick your ass he’ll probably keep clucking like this for weeks.”

“Great. I don’t know how long we have, Dumbass, but we certainly don’t have weeks to mess around with this… head. In fact, why the hell am I still holding—”

“Correct.”

“You just cut me off again, but thanks for agreeing with me for once, I guess?”

“You’re welcome. Three minutes.”

I squinted and let out a huff. “Here you go with that cryptic bullshit again. Three minutes... three minutes... what?”

“Uh, that’s how long we have, duh. Three minutes. Three minutes until Brahma and his backup goon squad of Shock Troopers get here to break both your wings and legs and shoot us down to Absolom just in time to get our skull bashed in when our pod opens up and the closest accused sees the sweet ass duster I hooked you up with and decides they want it for themselves.” Dumbass drew in a breath. It didn’t need to, on account of not breathing and all that jazz, but it still did. “Three minutes until some poor, abused, meek creature finally sees us as the motivational opportunity they need to take control of their life, kills us at our weakest, and keeps me from seeing the sweet bulbous bug-like lines of Serenity and the Hero of Canton, the man they call Jayne once again!”

“That’s... oddly specific.” I looked around the room. “So is there a garbage can around here or…”

“Ba-kawk!”

“No, no time for that. I’ll put him in the inventory.”

The thought of carrying around a severed chicken head didn’t sit well with me, rolling around in my new backpack, clucking and getting gore all over all my—well, I guess since I had the duster equipped I didn’t really have anything other than a couple of bags of chicken feed. Still, while I hated chicken feed, the thought of eating blood soaked chicken feed didn’t exactly make my mouth water, so I put my orange foot down and took a stand against my AI. “I’m pulling rank here and saying no to that, Dumbass.”

“I would just like to point as your spirit guide and best friend and physical trainer that would be a terrible waste of usable loot, especially considering how he has an implant in his head.”

“An implant, eh?” I thought about that for a moment, and my eyes went wide with realization. “An implant?! Can I… maybe… replace you with his?”

“Why am I not surprised you’re eager to get rid of the greatest thing to ever happen to you?” Dumbass sighed. “But no. No ducking way. I’m not removable like a thumb drive. I’m hard-wired baby. Only way you get rid of me is if you get killed. Or if you kill yourself, which is totally the same result, the only difference is who does the killing. Flap, do you think your kill-death ratio goes up or down if you kill yourself? Or does it stay the same? I'm a complex AI with a direct connection to the code of the universe and that makes my head hurt. I mean, it makes your head hurt. I can tell by your vitals.”

For a smallest fraction of a second, I actually considered taking the pun intended chicken’s way out and getting all this over with. But then I remembered my pond, and Earth, and the billions of beings that were somehow now my responsibility, and I sobered up. “Yeah, I don’t care if it’s useful. I don’t want to carry around a severed head. Let’s get rid of—”

It just so happens that the code of the universe picked that very moment, with me standing there holding the crowing blood soaked head of a rooster that had once been big enough to double as a combination grad assistant and defensive lineman for the Texas State Armadillos, to duck me. The hanger door shot open, revealing Sector Administrator Brahma and a half dozen black coated chicken brutes that looked even more mean than the last pair. Mostly on account of the double lightning bolt patches they wore on their shoulders.

“That’s a little heavy-handed, Ron,” Dumbass mumbled under its proverbial breath. “Should have let me tell it…”

I locked eyes with Brahma, but only after he had spent several seconds doing the same with the head of Drok D’Rumstick, and felt my knees go weak at the murderous rage that seemed to glow from his bulbous eyes. And then the ducking head turned into a pile of pixels and sucked into my inventory.

New Milestone: Head!

You just got head. And not the warm and wet kind, dude. Well, I mean, I guess it is also the warm and wet kind. For now. But this one ends with something salty in your mouth, unlike a blow—wait. Shit. A head, then. You just got a head. And you put it in your special hiding place like a teenager's favorite tube sock. Gross. Anyway, I’m sure it will come in handy lat—nevermind. I don’t want to tell you. You’re gross, and weird. It’ll probably start growing mushrooms on it or something.

“Drok? My son? You killed my son, you vile Terran!” barked Brahma. “And then you looted his head?”

Right then, I knew I had ducked up. The pain and anger he spewed at me chilled my blood like I had ice water running through my veins. I don’t know if I would have still killed the big chicken knowing he was the son of the scariest thing I had seen since the business end of shotgun, but I didn’t have time to waste worrying about past decisions. So, I collected myself and said the most sincere and appropriate thing that came to my mind. "Are... you not entertained?”

“Well, stuff us in a turkey and call us a turducken!” Dumbass shouted. “I take back everything I just said. Drumstick was his kid? What a twist?! I did not see that coming! I mean, I should have. It is a terrible cliche, but wow!”

“Gallics of Clan Brahma,” roared the Administrator. “This Earthing has killed and dishonored a member of your clan! The twenty-seventh son of your clan head! Seize him so that I may snap every bone in his body personally. You may fire. Stun beams only.”

“And he ruined it. That’s way too many chicks to have it be even close to being emotionally relevant. And from a villain like that, I was expecting an”—Dumbass broke into a terrible imitation of a Russian accent—“if he dies, he dies type thing. What a waste of an opportunity to come up with a good tagline. You know? He could have gone with—”

“Shut up, Dumbass,” I said out the corner of my bill, holding up my now empty hands. “C’mon. Brahma, pal. Let’s not be so hasty. I didn’t know he was your boy. And he challenged me to a duel, you know? I didn’t want to do it, but he came after me and I cut his head off fair and square.”

Brahma didn’t say a word. He just shook his head, dipped his wing tip into the river of red blood steaming towards the drain in the center of the room, then ran his feathered fingers across his face, leaving four red lines in the white. Then he tasted the blood and spat it on the floor. "By the grace of First Egg, I shall cleave your head from its neck with the spur of my son and place it on a pike before the galaxy."

“And he just made up for all of it with that badass line! But, um, we might want to run now, Flap!” snapped Dumbass. “Quick! For the Mel Gibson popsicle maker!”

I raised an eyebrow. “What?!”

“The drop pod, you idiot! Run for the ducking drop pod! Oh, and don’t forget to pick up our new friend's arm on the way over. We don’t want him to get lonely, do we? I think it might come in... handy. Ha! Get it? Handy?”

"Yeah, I get it."

Dumbass didn’t have to tell me twice. I sprinted across the room towards the pod, dodging a barrage of glowing orange energy bolts, then I bent low and scooped up the arm, clutching it to my chest like it was a sick baby duckling. I dove headfirst into the horizontal pod, and without even thinking, rammed my hand down on the panel to the right of the coffin-like door, slamming it shut with a clank. The pod shifted upright as steam filled the surrounding room, and the last thing I remember before the haze became too thick to see out the view port was a single black eye outlined by two streaks of crimson.

Then the world dropped out from under me.