The Lord of the Lemmings stuck his pointer finger into the dark recesses of his cowl and pulled it back out to hold aloft as if testing the direction of the wind. “We don’t have much time,” he informed anyone who was still listening.
A demographic that peripherally included R.T.; she spared him a glance while waiting impatiently for the tiny transmitter to… transmit. Instead of taking the weirdo’s bait, she addressed the prophet, “Who’s the chicken?”
Kyle scratched his head and watched the angry mob disperse back to their pews inside the Church of Kendra. They had to be the laziest rioters of all time.
R.T. cleared her throat in an attention-getting way.
“Would you like a Lozenge Lemming?” the Lemming Lord offered. “Now with 20% more flavor.”
R.T. again resisted engaging him—although she was admittedly curious about just what it had 20% more flavor than. “Hey, prophet? Who’s the chicken?”
Kyle picked at a nail when he realized the warrior woman and Death guy were staring at him. “Hmnh?”
“The chicken? Who is she?” R.T. tried yet again to another blank look. She waved the transmitter as a visual aid. “On the other end of the transmitter? Who?”
“Oh. I don’t—how do you know it’s a chicken?”
R.T. made a circular get on with it gesture.
“Yeah, I don’t know. Sorry. That’s the first I’ve heard anyone else but Kendra,” he shrugged unhelpfully. “Well, sometimes I’d hear some dude in the background. I think he’s gay,” lifelong homosexual, Kyle addended.
R.T. squinted in the blistering light, not entirely sure what that information did for her. Not much, she decided. She risked another look over at the Lord of the Lemmings who produced another of his little rodent minions.
This one struggled to hold up an antenna tower ten times its size.
“Now what?” she asked before she could think better of it.
“Best I can tell, Operation: Manifest Destiny is about to begin. This leaves me very little time to harness the incoming energy of the primary server download and wrest the puissance from the burgeoning pantheon for myself so I can prematurely ascend to godhood in this mock universe of ones and zeroes.” Lord of the Lemmings explained as if listing what he had for supper.
R.T. felt queasy.
The Lemming Lord hummed as he extended the first leg of a tripod from the bottom of his antenna holding minion. Then the next and so on until the rodent was propped up on three metal legs to about chest height.
The erstwhile Astromobile noted that the critter was pointed at her and wondered if she was being paranoid. Her pensiveness was made worse as the Lord of the Lemmings produced another, identical lemming and circled around her to start setting this one up on the other side.
“So what’s his deal anyway?” Kyle whispered aside. “Is he Death? He looks like Death.”
“Death looks like Jason Priestley.”
“I know what you—wait, what?”
“He hates when you bring it up too,” R.T. continued, distracted.
Lord of the Lemmings gave them an ignorant—but cheerful—thumbs up as he finished setting up his second servant.
Speak of waiting for an answer, the box crackled to life. “—T. This is Chicken Team Bravo. Over.” It was the same voice as before, only this time it sounded… depressed?
“Copy that, Bravo. Over.”
Kyle stood apart as his makeshift companions were otherwise involved with their own thing. This was exactly why he got out of the club scene. Meanwhile he pondered that he sort of wanted to make out with Death, now. Was that weird?
“—doesn’t matter anymore. It’s all been for nothing.”
R.T. waited a five count without further transmission before responding. “Bravo Team, are you in a mid-sized Astromobile? Routine-Class? Some blaster scorching over the right side drag flaps? Over.”
“—na died for nothing. For nothing! But who cares, right? We’re just chickens.” Another long pause followed. This chicken was well off of her radio etiquette.
“Okay, Bravo, it sounds like you’re having a bad time of it. Answer me this: is Brin coming? Over.”
“Ask her where Kendra is,” Kyle added but was waved off by an annoyed looking R.T. He turned to see if the shrouded one was any better of a conversationalist but he was too busy setting up a third lemming on a tri-pod. “Whatever,” Kyle muttered to himself.
“—abandoned us out here. He said he’d see you soon, but what does that do for us? For our mission?” the voice on the other end of the transmitter continued to begrudge her fate.
“Who abandoned you? Brin? Did Brin say he would see me soon? Did he say how he’d do that exactly?” The sickness R.T. felt in her stomach got worse.
“—doesn’t matter, R.T. Have a good life in there. I’m ending transmission. Over.”
No. No. “Bravo. Stay with me.” She thought about asking after Brin again but that seemed like a sore spot. “Are you in a Routine-Class Astromobile? Over.” Nothing but dead air came back. “Bravo Team, please respond. This is important. Are you in a Routine-Class Astromobile? Over.”
“Ask her about Kendra. Maybe Kendra knows something,” Kyle insisted.
R.T. frowned at the prophet, but decided it was worth a shot, “Bravo, come back. Are you with Kendra Shields? Over.” She really didn’t feel good, she acknowledged with a grimace. Like she had to fart, but couldn’t.
R.T. was about to take one last stab at transmission when the box crackled to life again.
“—want Kendra Shields?!” A burst of static accompanied the shouting chicken’s voice.
Kyle was a little overwhelmed. Everyone was frantic, self-absorbed, or depressed. This was exactly why he stopped doing coke.
“—ere you go. Speak, bitch. Speak!”
A loud blast of breath emitted offensively from the box. “Ar—R.T., right?” a familiar voice trembled. “I’m really sorry about your body. I can only insist I had a good reason, and put it to good use.”
“Kendra?” R.T. responded but could tell her voice went nowhere. The other end was still transmitting.
“Say goodbye, bitch,” the chicken’s voice was away from the mic but could be clearly heard on the other end.
Kyle put his hand to his lips in horror.
“R.T., I think I’ve run out of time. You’re… you’ve been lied to. Used. You need to get to GoogolSoft and input Override Omega into whatever they’ve found to replace the primary Infi-Net router. This will—” the terrible report of automatic weapons fire cut off the transmission with a squelch.
Tears welled in Kyle’s eyes.
“Well, I hope you all like your destinies manifested, because here it comes,” the Lemming Lord pointed to the sky.
A rifle-shot of pain shot through R.T.’s gut. She crushed the little black transmitter in her seizing hand as she doubled over.
