Charlemagne and Bridget stared down at the remnants of a ruined box. A blue glow peeked out from underneath the shredded pieces of wood. Charlemagne’s claw flashed out, revealing a small ingot of dark grey metal that was shining.

  “Boss, it’s just a piece of iron or something. Why are you going crazy over it?” Bridget asked, buzzing around with no small amount of agitation.

  “Bawk,” Charlemagne insisted.

  “But…it’s not glowing. Or at least, not in any way I can see. And I think my eyes are better than yours.”

  “Bawwwk,” the rooster denied.

  “Fine, fine. It’s glowing. But, what are you going to do with it?”

  Charlemagne showed her.

  A few moments later, the entire ingot was sliding down the rooster’s distended throat. The metal was rougher than he had expected, but the small abrasions did nothing to dampen the ravenous craving he felt for the hunk of metal. The heavy object bypassed his crop and slammed into his stomach. The moment it did, a feeling of deep satiation spread through him. Charlemagne basked in the afterglow for a few moments before the squiggles appeared with a message.

  Charlemagne was annoyed by the lack of immediate benefit from swallowing the metal. Dismissing the message from the Squiggles, he looked around for anything else worth consuming. Human corpses were lying all around, but the rooster felt very full from the special metal that he had consumed. Nothing seemed to jump out at him. Nothing except…a very familiar presence.

  “Bawk,” the chicken yelled as he sprang back into action. It took him a few minutes of rooting around, but Charlemagne finally found what he was looking for. The crate was buried deep beneath a pile of trade goods. From inside came the faint, snuffling sound of a small creature snoring.

  “What’s in there, boss?” Bridget asked.

  “Bawk!” the rooster answered.

  “I have no idea what that is, to be honest,” the mosquito answered.

  It took just a few moments for the rooster to crack open the crate, revealing the creature inside.

  It was a pangolin.

  Can I drain it? Bridget queried through the Party’s mental link.

  As Charlemagne was about to give his approval to the suggestion, a spike of pain lanced through his skull, accompanied by a dim recollection of being…somewhere else. There was something important about the pangolin, some reason to spare its life despite the gains that he would undoubtedly receive for dispatching and consuming his fellow Champion.

  “Bawwwk,” he replied instead with regret.

  Wait, really? We can’t? Why? The mosquito wondered, buzzing closer to the strange creature.

  “Bawwwwk. Bawk Bawk,” the rooster responded.

  We’re gonna invite it to the Party? And it’s another Champion? Wow, okay. But how do you know that?

  “Bawk,” Charlemagne answered with confidence.

  Oh, well, I’m surprised it’s still alive if you fought it before.

  A pang of regret welled up inside the rooster’s heart as he recalled the death of Francois, giver of bread and his first true companion. The memory almost caused him to Strike out at the small pile of wood covering the still snoring animal. But he somehow restrained himself and, taking a deep breath, told Bridget the entire story. He started at the very beginning, recalling his near death experience at the hands of his former owner, then the series of fights that had led him into Cotonou, where he had been practically reborn inside the statue. Then he told her everything that had happened between him and Francois, which had culminated in the death of the gorilla and the pangolin Champion’s escape.

  The entire story took over an hour. By the end, Bridget was making strange sounds every couple sentences.

  “Bawk,” the rooster concluded, wrapping up his tale.

  That’s…that’s just so sad, the mosquito sniffed, pretending to wipe away a tear from her enormous compound eye despite her lack of tear ducts. Charlemagne didn’t understand.

  “Bawwk?” he inquired.

  What do you mean? It’s just sad. You had a friend from another species, and he was betrayed by one of his own. Bridget attempted to explain.

  “Bawk bawk,” Charlemagne clarified.

  Oh, what does ‘sad’ mean? Bridget responded, clearly confused. Like, you don’t understand the concept?

  “Bawk,” confirmed the rooster.

  Just as Bridget was about to launch into a long explanation on the concept of emotions to the emotionally and socially inept bird, their conversation was interrupted by another voice.

  “Aren’t you going to render me some assistance?” a refined but sleepy-sounding voice asked from underneath the remains of the crate. “I figure since you’ve been observing me openly for some time without initiating hostilities, so it seems to me that you are interested in some form of parley. Is my assumption correct, or should I prepare to defend myself? I must warn you that I have acquired several tricks since our last encounter, but I really don’t wish to use them at this juncture, as they require significant effort on my part.”

  Another dim memory attempted to surface, causing the rooster to wince yet again. A distant voice echoed in his mind.

  “One that is powerful but has little love for battle…”

  “Bawk,” the rooster declared.

  “A truce? I can certainly agree to that,” the pangolin decided. “But may I ask for what purpose? I didn’t peg you as the inquisitive type. Nor the forgiving, if we’re being honest.”

  “Bawkkk,” Charlemagne answered. “Bawk bawak bawk.”

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  “I see,” the pangolin said with a grunt as it nosed its way out of the wooden debris. It squinted in the strong sunlight as it examined the wrecked caravan and dead humans along the beach road. “And what happened here?”

  “Bawwk,” was the short answer.

  “Yes, I can see that…how…utterly terrifying. It looks like less an attack and more like a natural disaster passed this way. Was there a reason you attacked this particular caravan?”

  “Bawk.”

  “You just…ran into them? How fortunate for you and unfortunate for them…and me, I suppose. I shall have to somehow make my way west under my own power. How distasteful.”

  “Buck bawk?” the rooster asked, his usually decisive voice appearing hesitant.

  “Join you? What an intriguing proposition. I was planning to meet up with several prospective Party members near Accra, but my deity has not forbidden me to make other arrangements, if I deem them suitable. What do you have in mind?”

  “Bawk bawwk buck bawk baawk baaawwwk,” Charlemagne explained.

  “Well, I’m afraid that you’re never going to have a moment’s peace in this area. It seems that there are multiple groups hunting every chicken they can get their teeth and claws on. I would not care to be a flightless bird in coastal west Africa, that’s….apologies. I sympathize with your plight, sir rooster. Very well, I will join your Party for the time being. There is a Dungeon not far from here that I need assistance clearing, once I figure out how to get rid of all the corrosive energy near the entrance.”

  Charlemagne took a few moments to figure out how to invite the pangolin to the Party, and was rewarded with a message from the squiggles for his efforts.

  “If I’m going to throw my lot in with you both, I need to know what resources we have to work with." The pangolin asserted once he had joiend the Party. "Charlemagne, you are the rooster, correct? If so, please share your status screen with the Party. I’ll be happy to reciprocate.”

  “Bawk,” the rooster agreed before sharing his status, with a few notable exceptions. The biggest oversight was that he had not included the effects on his attributes that came from his Achievements. He also did not consider the notices that he received from tempering his body and soul as part of his status, so the system did not display those either. He also forgot to include his items.

  There was a moment of stunned silence as the pair examined Charlemagne’s data.

  “What?!” both Bridget and Phatagin exclaimed simultaneously.