TWENTY: A FAIRY TALE

I frowned. “Wait, what?”

“Um,” Bawkman stumbled on his words. “You were gonna, uh, you know, flash me, right?”

“No, I wasn’t going to ducking flash you!” I yelled. “I was going to show you my little head.”

Bawkman clanked a metal hand against his head. "And this is why I don’t like being a defender for you chickenshits. Listen, Russell—”

“Name’s Flap. Not Russell. Flap. Flap Merganser.”

“Whatever. Listen, Flap. I don’t give two pukes what you want to call yourself. You’re as good as dead meat to me. But what I’m trying to say is that when you make a comment like that, about your little head, and walk around wearing a trench coat, well, you can see how beings might think you’re looking to show somebody your gizzard, you know?”

Weevul clanked his exoskeleton and brought three claws up to rub at space beneath his maw. “Weevul confused. What is this flash you speak of? Like light?”

“It’s when you ambush some unsuspecting victim by showing them your privates when they didn’t ask for it,” came the muffled voice of Dumbass from under my coat. “It’s universally funny across all species... and also universally frowned upon… for various cross species morality reasons I will not get into right now.”

Weevul waved his arms at his naked body. “Curculian is still confused why this bad thing. Weevul no wear clothes. Metal chicken man only wear half clothes. Flap wear half pants, poorly shortened by him. Rotting head unable to wear clothes, but not even wear necklace. Not sure what problem is.”

“Weevul, my man,” Dumbass chuckled. “If we ever have time to sit down and watch Gremlins, I’m sure you’ll get it.”

“The funny part and the bad part?”

“The funny part for sure. The other part, well, that might be like trying to a Steven Seagal revival happen—”

“What in the unholy duck?!” Bawkman screamed, as he stared at my pelvis in disbelief. “The hell has Jolene gotten me into?! Dogdamn chickenshit. I’ve seen a lot of species in my day and I’ve never heard of one with a talking papilla.”

“For the last time, Bawkman!” I clenched my fists. “I don’t have a damn papilla! I have a ducking penis. And I've had nothing but compliments from—”

“Yourself. But throttle down on the SimDrive there, chickenshit—about fifteen percent would be dandy. And I get it. You have a member. You play with it. A lot. We all do, though the grown ups among us don’t brag about it. We rub it till it pops and savor in the magic moment without sending a message to the entire sector.” Bawkman spat out his wheeze of a laugh, then spoke through gritted beak. “And quit ducking screaming! You’re drawing a lot of attention! And I don't like attention.”

"Well, if that ain't the pot calling the kettle black," I mumbled. "Call me out for doing the same thing you are..."

But the chicken was right. The entire bar had stopped everything they were doing to watch our bizarre exchange, even Jolene and her pack. It was like some surreal joke in action. A chicken, a duck, and a bug walk into a bar, and the patrons listen to them argue about getting wingy with their sex organs while an implant occupying a severed head gyrates inside the duck’s half pants.

“Duck it, I’m just gonna show you, then.” I ripped open my jacket as wide as it would go and thrust my pelvis at him like I was recreating the choreography from Beat It. “Look at it! Don’t be scared, you robot chicken! Open your eyes and ducking look at it, Bawkman!”

Len Bawkman, eyes clenched shut in fear of what I had shown him, slowly opened his right eye. After a pause, his left artificial one flashed back on. It took him a few seconds to digest what he was seeing, then he gasped and said, “Is that?”

“Yep!” I beamed. “That’s Dumbass.”

“What, no! I didn’t ask what your mother called you as a chick, chickenshit.” He shook his head. “It’s just that I know that head. I’ve seen it before, but it was... younger. That’s Drok D’Rumstik. And how the hell did you wind up with the head of Drok ducking D’Rumstik?!”

I raised a feathered hand and pretended to brush dirt off my shoulder. “I killed him, obviously. Duh.”

“Shit. That's bad. That's really bad. We need to find a place to talk.” He pulled my coat shut. “And you are definitely buying me another drink.” He turned over his shoulder. “Hey Jolene? Mind if I use your room in the back for a minute?”

***

The backroom wasn’t a room at all. And it wasn't Jolene's either, seeing as how the bartender had thrown me out for flashing. I wanted to be mad about but he did the right thing. Nine times out of ten, a weirdo running around in a trench coat is going to be bad news.

So, instead of a private room to chat, they forced us into an alleyway behind the bar, complete with all the usual alleyway things, like rancid garbage and rotting corpses. It was just the trash one would expect behind a seedy establishment like the Winchester.

Bawkman kicked over and giant cable spool, much like one would find in a college dorm room, to use as a makeshift table. We sat on what I would normally call chicken crates, but seeing as how the chickens around here were north of six feet tall and the dominant species, I kept it simple with chair.

My chair had seen better days. It was a rickety and creaky and felt like it could collapse at any moment. Bawkman didn’t even bother to sit down. He was a cranky bastard, and in keeping with his cranky image, he was less than pleased about the head bandying about on the table. He kept staring at Dumbass with a look that could have been disgust or indifference—it was hard to tell seeing as how half his face was robot.

The big chicken winced as feathers and old skin flaked off Dumbass as it recreated our battle with Drok the Brute and told the matching tale in vivid detail. I hate to admit it, but Dumbass played both parts to near perfection. Though I shouldn’t have been surprised by its portrayal of me. It was inside my head, listening in on every moment of my life.

It had all the research material it needed to pull off a character piece like Daniel Day Lewis, after all.

His Drok was okay, though he sounded a little dumber than I remembered. If he had been a pig instead of a chicken, I could understand hamming it up. But the overacting reminded me of Bill Shatner, and I was more of a Wars than a Trek duck.

Despite my reservations, Weevul absorbed the show with childlike wonder in his many eyes, sucked into the moment until Dumbass finally wrapped the story up.

“And then,” Dumbass said. “After Flap made some terrible bird joke—”

“Hold on a second.” Bawkman raised a metal hand. “I love a good joke. What was it?”

“He said, ‘What do you get when you cross a chicken and a ghost?’”

Bawkman shrugged. “I dunno.”

“You get a poultry-geist! Heh-heh-heh-HEHHHH-heh! Pretty terrible, huh?”

“Yeah…” Bawkman stared through me with that glowing eye. “And prophetic, too, chickenshit.”

“Oh totally,” Dumbass agreed. “You wanna know the worst part though?”

“Not really.”

Dumbass ignored him. “The worst part is that he made some bold comment about it being the first of many bird related jokes, and lemme tell you Bawkman my, uh, bird, he hasn’t fired off another zinger since. I don’t blame Flap, though. I blame the other guy; he kind of lost the plot for a moment.”

“Who the hell are you are talking about now, you sorry excuse for a cell phone?!” I spat.

Dumbass waved its tongue dismissively. “Oh, don’t you worry about that. Its omnipotent being business. Nothing you’d know anything—”

“Excuse?” interrupted Weevul as he tried to get our attention by knocking on the table with a trio of arms. “Shut up, please. Weevul would like to get back to the story now.”

“Is that how it is, huh?” Dumbass retorted, then it jumped right back into action. “So anyway, then Flap lopped off Drok’s head with his combat spur, we dropped down to Absolom, partied up with Weevul, leveled up on some blastoblobs, and wandered around getting into arguments about nothing until we made it here and found you. Is that it?” It considered for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, that’s it. So... the End. But not, like, the real The End, omnipotently speaking. Just The End of the story within the story. Can you dig it?”

Bawkman snapped, "No, I don't ducking dig it!"

“Why? Were you not paying attention? Do I need to take you back through it, Edge of Tomorrow style? Because I do a pretty good Tom Cruise.”

“No, it’s not that.” Bawkman paused and took a sip from a half full can he had found in the alley. Whatever was in it made him gag. “It’s just—duck it, I can't hold back anymore. What the duck are you?!”

“Oh? That? Pfft! That’s easy. I’m Dumbass, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember. That still doesn’t explain what you are.”

“It’s my implant,” I offered. “And it's got a… factory defect that made it all self-aware and stuff. It’s a real pain in the ass, but it’s the only help I’ve had until we found you.”

“How unfortunate. That you found me, I mean.” Len Bawkman turned to face me. “What planet are you from, chickenshit?”

I frowned. “Yeah, this is not gonna work for me, Bawkman. My name is Flap and I don’t appreciate it when you call me chickenshit.”

The Gallus stood to his feet and pointed a pair of fingers towards my chest. “You best get used to it, chickenshit. Thanks to you three, and Jolene, I have no choice but to help you through the Trials now!”

“Fantastic news!” I ran a hand through my frill. “I worried you were going to ditch us for a minute.”

Bawkman pursed his beak. “I considered that. The consequences were… more tempting than a three credit roll in the hay at a henhouse.”

"Gross." But I did the civil thing and offered my hand. “Well, I’m glad you didn’t, Len Bawkman. Put her there.”

He swatted my hand away. “Go duck yourself, chickenshit.” He hesitated. “You wouldn’t have anything to eat, would you? This jet fuel gives my replacement parts all they need to keep going, but the high octane tears up my insides. And the organic half of my stomach is rumbling. We could... talk about the questline while I peck away.”

I checked my inventory. I was running low, but giving away a bag of chicken was a fair price for information. "Sure, I can spare a bag of feed."

Weevul jumped on top of the table and screamed wildly at my mention of his beloved feed. “No fair! No fair! If you give him one, you have give Weevul one!”

“Calm down, pal." I raised my hand and pushed it down towards the floor, then I summoned a bag of feed to my palm. “Just calm down, pal. You know I got you.”

“Weevul know.” The Curculian shivered as he snatched the food and gave Bawkman the side eyes. “But Weevul still curious. Just what so tempting to make super metal chicken Len Bawkman want to abandon Weevul’s new family?”

Bawkman’s beak twisted into a nasty grin, then he snapped his metal fingers. “Instant death the moment I left your party. And… I'm regretting it more and more every dog forsaken second more I spend with you chickenshits.”

***

Len Bawkman wasn’t kidding when he said peck away. He snatched the first of the vacuum sealed bags as soon as it hit the table, broke it open by twisting in a half, then started ramming his beak down into the wood in the most chicken like behavior I had seen in a Gallus outside of clucking and crowing. His beak threw up a cloud of splinters as he furiously snatched up every kernel of feed, then he let out a thundering belch. "More!"

In a surprising show of patience, Weevul held onto his bag until he saw Bawkman eyeballing it, then he rammed it into his biological wood chipper of a mouth right in front of the former Sergeant Adjudicator's face.

That started a bit of argument.

Bawkman clucked on and on about Weevul being a greedy chickenshit and Weevul, believe or not, actually dared the Gallus to eat him if he wanted it so badly. It was nice seeing the little guy gain some confidence—it made me feel proud, you know? I just hoped that Bawkman didn’t decide to take him up on the offer. I would fight him, but I would lose. He was way over my level.

“So,” I said, doing my best to break the tension. “Tell me about the keys and the portal.”

Bawkman leaned back in his chair and burped again. “What’s there to tell, chickenshit? You’re literally talking about the most common and boring quest line in the history of the Trials. Are you telling me that doesn’t ring a bell?”

“Yeah… that’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

“You can't be serious?!” Bawkman snorted. “Every chick in the GGQ hears that fairy tale the first year of grade school.” He scanned me with that eye again. “What planet did you say you were from, again?"

"I didn't."

He scanned me. "Australia, huh? Never heard of it. Just where the duck in the Galaxy is Australia?”

“If you want to get technical,” Dumbass said. “The human part of him was born in New Zealand, and if you want to get even more technical, he never even became an Australian citizen so—”

“Hold on a damn peck!” Bawkman said as he pushed away from the table. “Human part? You mean… you’re from Earth?”

“That tin can that makes up half your face must emptier than a millennial’s bank account." Dumbass snorted. “Obviously I’m not a human. I told you I’m an—”

“Shut the duck up! I wasn’t talking to you. Is your name chickenshit?” He jabbed a metal finger at me. “I was talking to chickenshit. You’re from Earth?”

“I mean, I only found out I was from Earth, like, yesterday, when those chickens pulled me off my pond—against my will, I might add. But yeah. Yeah, Bawkman, I’m from Earth.”

“Well, I’ll be dipped...” Bawkman’s eyes darted back and forth, like he was scanning the inside of his head for information. When he found it, he leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Let me ask you this, chickenshit. Did that ship have a Gallus that was a major asshole on it? About my height. My age, and I mean like a ducking relentless asshole?”

“Hmm.” I thought about it for a moment, then I realized he was describing Sector Administrator Brahma to a tee. I didn't know how the name would translate for Bawkman, but I trusted the magic of my implant. “Are you talking about Brahma?”

"First hen!" Bawkman’s hands flew to the sides of his head with a clank. “He is alive! I knew it!”

“Is… he not supposed to be?”

Bawkman ignored me and pointed at Dumbass’s avatar. “You know this was his son, right?”

“Yeah… he mentioned that when he caught me cutting his head off, but Dumbass said he had, like, thirty kids and it wasn’t a big deal.”

“Plus,” Dumbass added. “He deserved it for what he did to that poor chicken. I mean, the guy was a bumbling idiot, but you can’t just kill people because they’re stupid, you know? It'd be like giving Rain Man the death sentence for liking K-Mart underwear.”

"I don't get that reference, but I am intrigued by this Rain Man." Bawkman frowned. “But, it’s a big deal alright. He’s going to be coming for you—wait. Who did he kill again?”

Dumbass snorted. “Just some big stuttering oaf of a chicken named Leghorn. A real Gomer Pyle-Leonard Lawrence type. I can totally see why Brahma did it, but in Leghorn’s defense, I told him to abduct Flap instead of that Crowe guy, and Brahma really didn't like that. Sounds like it had ruined his plans or something.”

"My dog. The kid did it. He actually ducking did it." Len Bawkman slumped his shoulders starred off into the distance for the longest time. I could see the slightest hint of mist form at the corner of his bulbous good, welling up into a little orb as prepare to drop. Bawkman wiped at it with a forearm before it hit critical mass, coughed, and took a massive pull from his can of jet fuel. When he burped again, it came out as a trail of fire.

“Hey, Bawkman,” I said, with genuine concern. “You okay, man?”

“Yeah, fine,” he said in a harsh crack. “Nasty piss went down the wrong tube is all.”

I gave him a sideways glance. “So… about this fairy tale?”

“Yes! Yes!” barked Weevul. “Weevul love story time.”

“Right, right. The story.” Bawkman took another pull/ When he spoke again, a little of the snarky fire had left his gruff voice. “A long time ago, before all this… war, and when the Trials were different—a test of a warrior’s skill and determination to prove their innocence instead this specter driven by entertainment we have now, a great warrior—the greatest the Galaxy had ever seen, saw the future as she lay dying.”

“C'mon!" Dumbass interrupted. "This story already has more holes in it than a truck stop bathroom. If she was so great, then why was she laying there dying?”

“Because... you know what? I need a name for you.” Bawkman smiled. “She lay there dying, shithead, because she made the ultimate sacrifice. She died so that the others she had picked up along the way—her party—could live. And as her light faded, the universe spoke to her. And she shared that vision with her closest friend before she faded into the code forever.”

"Very sad." Weevul made a low wail. “Did she have name?”

He smiled. “Oh, she had a name, all right. Her name was Ayam, and her friend was Anzu. Both sentenced to face the Trials for crimes against their people, and they won their innocence. They won the innocence of a dozen beings through their heroics. Legend says it was a magnificent proceeding.”

Dumbass snorted. “This is all very touching, Bawkman, and I’m sure it would a great Lifetime movie. But what was the damn vison?”

He clicked his beak in annoyance. “Ayam saw what many believe to be a future time. A time when a mysterious stranger unlike any either civilization had ever seen before would enter our world, and unite the many species of the galaxy.”

“Alright. I’ve had enough. This sounds like a Harry Potter prophecy instead of the Tale of Beedle the Bard. What’s next?” Dumbass laughed. “The mysterious stranger collects three magical items and uses them to defeat the big ducking bad—”

I clamped Dumbass’s beak shut. “Sorry, Bawkman. Please continue.”

“Well, to be fair to shithead, that ain’t all wrong. It was said this mysterious stranger would face three challenges. Three challenges with each rewarding a piece of a key. And once the keys were forged together, two doors would open for the stranger and they would have to make a hard choice. One would unite the world.”

“And the other?”

“The other would release an ancient beast and would plunge the galaxy even further down its dark path.”

“Wow!” Weevul said. “Amazing story! You tell again?”

"Nah." Bawkman shook his head. “Anyway, that’s more or less the original version of the story. There's more but"—he waves a finger around—"eyes everywhere. The one they teach to chicks now? Nothing like the original. That one’s skewed to fit the needs of the Collective. Just more propaganda for the ducking burn pile.”

"So." I rubbed my chin. “The main quest for this sector is inspired by that fairy tale. What do we have to do? Complete three challenges and the key pieces are ours? Get all three, put them together, and we get out? And why didn't I get a new quest in my display?”

“It's a HUD, chickenshit. And because the eye in the sky wants you accused to weed each other out. And more or less on the rest. Except that you're competing with all the accused in this sector. And they’re not challenges. They're temples, each with its own unique elemental dangers. One dirt, one air, and one flame. And if you get to the portal, you'll have to hope you payed enough attention to choose the right—”

Dumbass ripped its beak free and stormed up to Bawkman. “Don’t you mean Earth, Wind, and Fire?! Like the band?!”

Bawkman shook his head. “No, I mean dirt, air, and flame. Why would we use Earth in place of dirt? It makes no sense. Is it a filthy planet or something?”

“No! At least, not that I know of. I've never actually been there—I think. But agree to disagree on the name thing. My team will call them the Earth, Wind, and Fire temples from now on… just like the ones the Zelda guy has to beat in, like, every Zelda game ever.”

“Dumbass,” I said. “You do know that Zelda is the name of the princess, right?”

“What?! No! Zelda is the little dude with the pointy ears that likes throwing pots and stuff. You know? Potion addict? Thief? I love him. He's such a little bastard that you can't help but root for him to get the Triforce so he can rule over Hyrule with an iron fist.”

“Yeah… not sure what you took from that game and I hate to break it to you, Dumbass, but his name is Link.”

"Again, agree to disagree."

"And I've had enough of this Earth crap." Bawkman stood to his feet. "But I am your Public Defender now and I'll need to see what you've got in order to do my job—which I hate, if that wasn't clear. C'mon. I've got a buddy up the road that owns a training room and he owes me one."