Even the strongest men fall sometimes (linked). And sometimes, their descent comes from the most unlikely of sources. Such was the case with The General, viciously caught unawares by an assassin with an axe to grind... literally. When the armor is too strong, you go for the neck. That could describe the General's defeat in a nutshell. He should've never taken Vazquez for granted...

            “Inconceivable! You mean to tell me, virtually the entire Dome stood up against Walker… and he’s still standing?” Riley was incensed, screaming loudly at the assembled Psci, many of whom were missing chunks of their fur as a result of last week’s clash.

            “If you can’t take out one Con,” He continued, “What makes you think we have any hope of ever defeating dozens of them? Walker’s forces grow with each passing day. He now has Eck, Chan, and that Nini guy. Last week they unveiled that freak, Yaakarvo, who nearly set Cho on fire.”

            He looked over at Cho, who still had patches of melted fur plastered to the sides of his body. Several of his spines had also been broken. It would be several moltings before he fully recovered.

            “The othersss are no problem, Riley. Itsss just Walker. Itsss that armor of his. Vazquez’s axesss couldn’t even get through it!” Ngyu hissed.

            “Yeah,” Bahn growled, “Besides, aren’t you the one who told us months ago that you’d be taking Walker out? What’s taking so long?”

            Seriously… they were questioning him? This was un-called for! Perhaps if he threw them another bone, they’d let up.

            “I’ve had Vazquez working on something for a long time. You might’ve seen it last week during the marathon strike. He didn’t get a chance to use it, but give him time.

            “For your sake, I hope you’re right.” Cho folded his arms.

            “No need to hope. Hope is for the Cons,” Riley smirked, “No, I know I’m right.”

* * *

            It had taken all day, the Psci becoming increasingly irritated by the delay… but inevitably, Walker emerged, his penance render in hand. Vazquez, as well as the majority of the rest of The General’s foes, had become immune to the effects of that weapon after far too many encounters with it. Anxiously, he grasped the rubber chicken in hand. Once he finished this, he would be able to collect his reward, and in time be rid of this flabby body of his. Yes, he would be whole again.

            Walker pointed the weapon at him, but upon seeing that Vazquez was unarmed, lowered it. The General seldom struck first at any specific target, with the exception of Master Leach or Travis. No, he’d always start by randomly firing on the Psci’s lab. What a waste of time. It was no wonder he was still fighting them after all these years.

            He walked casually passed Walker, who for the moment appeared to be alone. Perfect. Moments later, he heard the General fire up his penance render.

            “Excellent,” he muttered to himself, grabbing the head of the rubber chicken with his other hand. He stretched the toy’s neck between his hands, and turned to face his mark. As expected, Walker was distracted, having taken the bait just like they predicted he would. The General fired relentlessly at Riley, Cho, Bahn, and Ngyu, who leapt between barriers every few moments, providing the perfect diversion.

            Vazquez turned and crept up behind Walker’s back, stretching the chicken further as he did so. Once he was in range, he threw the rubber chicken’s stretched body over Walker’s head. Not giving the proud Con a chance to respond, he pulled the chicken tight, cutting off Walker’s air supply. The general dropped his weapon and began clawing at his neck, but it was already too late… his face began turning red.

            Vazquez held the chicken-noose in place for a few more minutes until Walker finally collapsed to the ground. It was over.

            The Psci cheered and ran forward, patting him on the back and exchanging furry hugs. Between it all, they took turns taking cheap shots at Walker’s body, kicking him while he was down.

            Up above, Vazquez could see the commander on his balcony, shaking his head disapprovingly. Naturally, he didn’t want to see Walker go. The Commander lived for the excitement of the Dome, Vazquez knew. Without The General, things would get boring fast. But he needed to do what he did. It wasn’t out of hatred for Walker so much as his desire to shed this body of his, which had been forced on him during a short expedition into the abyss to search for his favorite pen. Since then, he’d been too embarrassed to even ask Rachel for a date. But that would all change, now.

            “I can’t believe it!” Ngyu laughed, “You choked him with a chicken! Brilliant!”

            “How did you know?” Bahn rested a bear claw on his shoulder.

            He didn’t respond. Rather, he just started walking toward The Keeper’s base. It was time to collect his reward.

* * *

            “You did it. I can’t believe you actually did it.” Leach stroked his chin as he spoke.

            “I did it and it’s done. Now pay up.” Vazquez held out his hand, “Or I’ll do a lot worse to you.”

            “You mean there’s a more demeaning way to die than to by chicken choking? Alright, I won’t wait around to see.” Leach rummaged through his drawer, finally producing Vazquez’s prize.

            Smiling, he handed the spare key to his gym to the unconventional assassin, hoping that would be the end of his demands.

            Vazquez gladly accepted the item, and immediately headed for the gym.

            “And…” Leach began speaking, moving Vazquez to glance back at him, “Don’t you even think of using my shampoo.”

* * *

            After the Psci had cleared, Adamsen led his team out to the dead zone under the cover of a new moon. When they finally reached Walker, he bent down and held his ear to the fallen General’s chest.

            “His heart’s still beating. Quick! Christine, Eck! Help me get him out of here, before the Psci see.”

            Nearby, Travis was watching. He knew they couldn’t just go ahead and leave Walker out there… no, the Cons were too attached to him. This wasn’t over, he knew. Trying to be as silent as possible, he unsheathed his foam LARP sword and crept closer to the dead zone as Christine, Eck, and Adamsen began loading Walker onto a gurney.

            …But something grabbed hold of his shoulder. Turning, he met Cockrell’s fist, which struck him between the eyes, knocking him unconscious.

            “You think he’ll be alright?” Christine asked, taking the back of the gurney.

            “I don’t know.” Adamsen steadied the small rolling cot with his hand, “I just don’t know… even if he does recover, he’ll never be the same.”

* * *

Fatigued from his journey, he barely had the energy to lift his head and check the gauge on his right forearm. The organic shell which now served on his body was running low on power. It had been a long night.

            Before him stood the gates of Myumb’s C Dome, a prison of sorts, one of the last vestiges of loser civilization left in this exciting world. Long ago, he had escaped this recondite city, to join the ranks of the other immortals- Alec Baldwin, Boley, Sgt. Jennings, and his beloved Nikki.

            “Oh, Nikki," he muttered to himself, clenching the papers which would all but guarantee his readmission into this place. This was where he met her, where they had declared their love to one another, where they had shared their first night of unbridled passion. How he wished she could have joined him! But fate had other plans for that vocal Semite...

            Lowering his eyes to the ground, he spotted a familiar, curled cord of cartilage and bone. He stopped for a moment to lean down and examine it closely. Attached to the spine was a simple note,

            “You'll need this. Love, Travis."

            He smiled. Talk about losers. But the beloved forum idiot was right- he would need his spine if he was to survive within this intellectual jungle, filled with cerebral weeds that threatened to steal away whatever was left of his sanity. He lifted the spine and attached it to the back of his Rucksack before returning to his trek.

            Just as he reached the gates, he was accosted by Lt. Smotherer and his counterpart, Rachel. Introductions were unnecessary. He knew all too well these veterans of the Myumb network. Long ago, they had surrendered their minds to cheap booze and British comedies, becoming inexorably tired to the dome, unable to leave lest their minds descend into madness.

            “Greetings, Meg," They spoke in unison. That name awakened his nostalgia. The commander used to call him that. Was it possible, was James still in charge of Myumb's C Dome? If so, what would the commander say, what would he think? Unconsciously, Gord MegIntire handed over his papers.

            It was too late to turn back now.