One Year Ago…

Eric Peran was no stranger to surgery.

Most Scurrants were very much accustomed to the cold table on their back, and the taste of anaesthetic. Their creators, the Gene Tyrants, had not built them to last. Generally, Scurrants had been fleeting amusements and little more -- the shortcuts in their genetics piling up over the generations until their bodies were no longer viable.

Peran had lived a relatively blessed life. As an ‘invisible’ Scurrant -- imbued with some of the traits of a chicken, of all things -- he'd only required a few adjustments in his early childhood to keep his body stable. But still… he remembered the cold.

It was an old friend. He hadn't expected to meet it again willingly.

The anaesthetic he'd been given, Niux-29, completely disabled the subject's sense of pain for several hours after it was taken. It was only because of Niux that Peran could lie there in silence, almost bored, as the surgeons slowly peeled his face away. The replacement floated in a tank of gel, empty eye-holes looking back at him.

That face was to be his new life, at least for the next year. The clown he'd have to become to beckon the dancer in the dark. He'd left behind the GID, he'd left behind his face… hell, he'd be abandoning his name too.

But he -- and the few willing to follow him -- would do it. They'd lure her out. They'd eliminate her. They would kill the Shepherdess…

…and let the hands of time start moving again.

Present Day…

The room stank of plasma and scorched flesh, filling Punk's nostrils as he staggered backwards. Smoke filled the room, and he went to raise a disgusted hand to his mouth --

-- but that was not to be. His left hand had been burnt away from the wrist upwards, after all. Far too exhausted for pain, he wiped some of the blood and soot onto his pants.

Chicken Punk took a deep breath…

“Did you really think that would kill me?” the Shepherdess asked.

…and he let it out.

The butt of the crook slammed into him, fast forwarded, strong enough to shatter ribs as it sent him flying backwards into the wall. As he slid down it, leaving a bloody trail, he looked up at the woman who had struck him.

Not a scratch. The Shepherdess just stood there, twirling her weapon between her hands like a musical baton.

“How…?” he groaned.

He understood what had happened, but he didn't understand how it had happened. He'd had hold of the Shepherdess, keeping her in place, and then… she'd just vanished. He'd been holding nothing but empty air -- and then the blasts had hit.

“It was inevitable that I'd break free,” the Shepherdess replied, thumping her crook onto the floor. “I just skipped time to the point where that had already happened.”

“Damn…” Punk chuckled, forcing himself up onto his shaking legs. “That's really something, huh?”

“I think I recognise you, actually,” the Shepherdess considered. “Not your face, but your story. Eric… Peran, right? Jean talked about you. He didn't like you very much.”

The lights flickered, illuminating the Shepherdess' face for just a moment. Chicken Punk's eyes widened behind his shattered goggles, and he bitterly wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth.

“How about that?” he rasped. “Looks like I recognise you too.”

“I’m not worried about that.” The Shepherdess' smile widened a tad. “Now, Mr. Peran… are you ready to taste defeat?”

Nine Months Ago…

There were days when Peran cursed his own plan. He still understood why it was the best option, and he still believed it would work… but actually carrying it out was a pain. Backstage at the Azum-Ha Golgotha Entertainment Centre, he cracked his neck.

“Two minutes, Mr. Punk!” a stagehand chirped up in passing, hugging their script to their chest.

“Sure thing!” he grinned his boisterous grin. “Thanks, partner!”

Shut up. I know I'm on in two minutes. I can count.

The Chicken Punk VS. Colonel Decimato Live Show. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Some play fighting against one of the idiotic villains from the stupid show. Good to raise his profile before his surprise entry into the Dawn Contest.

But reading the script again… this really was worthless.

This wasn't how a real fight was at all. Biting down on an enemy knife and shattering it? You'd slice your mouth apart. Way too much posing too -- and leapfrogging over the enemy to dodge? Come on.

A real fight, from what Peran had experienced, usually consisted more of a shot to the back of the head and a brisk walk away. But he guessed this was for kids. They had a natural resistance to the idiotic.

And yet…

When the curtains opened, when the show began, Peran couldn't help himself. He spoke all the stupid catchphrases, more enthusiastically than he needed to. He struck all the stupid poses, with more gusto than necessary. He gave the crowd a show. He gave them Chicken Punk.

But why?

Because he could see them. He could see their eyes. Countless children in the audience, locked in rapt attention, focused on their hero. Hero… him? It was a joke, but… they really felt that, didn't they? When they cheered, it was him they were cheering for, wasn't it?

He could see it in their eyes. Change. He had reached out to them and shown them how a hero acted.

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When he swooped in and saved the innocent hostages, they saw him.

When he stood up to the villain and stopped his selfish plan, they saw him.

When he extended a hand, and welcomed his former foe as a friend… they saw him.

They saw him.

They saw him.

“Chicken Punk,” whispered Chicken Punk, tears invisible behind his goggles.

Present Day…

Chicken Punk grinned.

“You got two things wrong just there, missy.”

The Shepherdess raised an eyebrow. “And what's that?” she asked, distinctly unimpressed.

It was hard with one arm, but far from impossible. The iconic Chicken Salute. One stump planted against his hip, the other hand splaying its fingers out on the top of his head -- mimicking a chicken’s comb. Every time he did this in a live show, every time they played this in a kideograph, the sheer cheering was always enough to shake the building.

It didn’t seem to be getting the same reception here, but Chicken Punk didn’t let that get him down. He spoke with confidence.

“You can’t defeat me anymore,” he smirked. “I beat you a long time ago.”

The eyebrow rose even higher. “Huh?”

“It’s like you said,” Chicken Punk went on, picking the broken glass from his face, piece by piece. “The Supremacy is made of people. The world is made of people. No matter how much jerks like you try and hit the brakes, people won’t ever stop moving forward -- learning, growing. That’s how they work. I’ve seen it. You just gotta look ‘em in the eyes.”

The Shepherdess rolled her eyes. “Sure, sure, whatever. What’s the second thing?”

He moved before he answered. A full charge, with his fist pulled back for a reckless punch, a bloody grin on his bloody lips. Like something from a comic book.

“The name’s Chicken Punk, missy!”

The first time Chicken Punk had gone out on the stage and played at battle for the kids, their cheering had just seemed like noise to him. Sounds designed to irritate the ears and smother the senses. A headache waiting to happen, in other words.

It was only when he discerned the words that they set his heart afire.

“Go! Chicken Punk! You can do it!”

He wasn’t sure where she’d gotten all the knives from. Maybe she’d grabbed them from the kitchen, or maybe she’d had them hidden away just in case. Whatever the case, they were flying at him -- dozens of them -- thrown by the Shepherdess with pinpoint accuracy. Each one would strike true, if he let them.

He wasn’t going to let them.

Pink Aether flashed. Some of the knives had been slowed down, some sped up. It was all meant to disorient and confuse him, throw his own timing off. It didn’t matter. Chicken Punk didn’t bawk at a Chicken Challenge.

He dodged and dodged and dodged, weaving through the onslaught of blades. Not one of them was perfect. Wide, jagged wounds were opened up across his body, bleeding freely onto the floor. One buried itself in his leg up to the hilt. Another, he caught between his teeth and shattered.

It’d take more than this to kill him.

“Go! Go! Go! Go!”

The first swing of the crook was faster than sound, and damn near invisible. Needless to say, it was almost impossible to dodge. Chicken Punk dodged it, ducking under the blow with demonic speed of his own. The Shepherdess’ accelerated movements were insanely strong and fast, but his Chicken Sense of movement could just barely keep up.

He could handle this.

The second swing he couldn’t dodge, but he did block it. The wooden staff smashed against his arm. Deep within, he felt the bone crack apart, but still he did not falter.

Even if it hurt, a hero kept fighting until the end.

“Win! Win! Win!”

One punch shattered his shoulder. Another sent the teeth flying from his mouth. For a moment, Chicken Punk almost slipped on the blood spreading beneath him -- but no. That, if nothing else, he could not allow.

No arms, and his good leg was supporting his weight, but he could still fight. He had a head after all -- and pecking was the ancient fighting style innate to all chickenkind. Roaring with passion, Chicken Punk brought his head back and --

“Chicken Punk! Chicken Punk! Chicken Punk! CHICKEN PUNK!”

A third punch slammed through his gut, sending a spurt of blood flying from his mouth. The Shepherdess pulled him in, her fist protruding from his back, coated in dripping red. Her nose wrinkled in disgust.

“If you’d just given up,” she sneered. “You’d have had a much easier death. This is unsightly.”

Punk coughed, more blood spilling from his mouth. He tried to carry out the headbutt he’d intended on… but no dice. It seemed something vital inside his body had been broken. This was it. He’d given it his all.

Despite the pain, and the blood, and the fading, Chicken Punk forced his grin to his face.

“Chicken Punk,” he gasped. “I already told you, missy… you can’t --”

Chronodissonance.

This was what she had been waiting for. The repeated attacks had worn down Peran’s Aether defenses, and now -- with this fatal blow -- his infusion had vanished. His body was free space for her own Aether to infest. When it came to these sorts of people, this was how the Shepherdess liked to do things.

The Aether crawled through the top half of Chicken Punk… and in an instant, aged it to dust. His severed legs collapsed to the floor, a gruesome pile of detritus.

As the Shepherdess pulled her hand back, she aged the blood coating it out of existence as well. Her enemy finally crushed, she let out a sigh of relief. The job wasn’t yet finished, of course -- the smoke had kept them from interfering for the time being, but those snipers were still out there. If one of them had gotten a glimpse of her face… well, she couldn’t risk it.

She turned away, spinning her crook in her hand once again. It wouldn’t be much trouble. She knew the rough locations of her prey now, and as the fastest Aether-user it would be a simple matter to reach them. All this amounted to was tedious labour.

The Shepherdess stepped forward.

“Hey. Villain.”

Her eyes widened. Her body moved. Chronodissonance accelerating her, she whirled around to swing her crook. Response and attack in a single instant.

“Didn’t you know? A chicken can fight without its head.”

The crook passed right through the Aether Awakening.

It was amorphous and inconsistently corporeal, a colossal mass of human and chicken features, black beady eyes glaring at the Shepherdess with righteous fury. Even as it had come into existence, it was already fading away, but the few seconds its lifespan would consist of could be enough. Feathers lanced out from its chest, already transforming into beak-tipped tendrils, and slashed.

She leapt backwards, but one of the tendrils struck its mark all the same. It carved deep into her left arm, nearly to the bone, leaving a wide and jagged gash. As the Awakening faded to its final rest, the Shepherdess clutched her injured limb.

The Shepherdess bled.

Damnation, she seethed. It knew what it was doing.

The Awakening had infused the wound with Aether as it had been inflicted -- meaning that the Shepherdess couldn’t reverse it right away. She’d have to wait for it to fade before she could use Chronodissonance on it. For the time being, she’d have no choice but to use actual field medicine. How humiliating.

Clutching her bleeding arm, sweat covering her face, the Shepherdess staggered out of the room…

…but not before finally ageing the structure of the tomb to its limits, making the whole thing collapse behind her.