by L. T. Hewitt
‘That’s a point,’ thought the Space Chicken, before changing the topic abruptly in the excitement of having someone who understood him in more ways than one. ‘When will you finally hatch?’
‘After around two months.’
‘That’s ages,’ the Space Chicken wailed. ‘I want you to hatch now!’ he demanded chickishly.
‘Tough.’
‘I’m just going to point out that you use a jet pack to move.’
‘What of it?’
‘When you hatch, that will fall off and you won’t be able to travel at all.’
‘I shall have to opt for the normal Chick method of transport: walking.’
‘But you can’t hatch, because your body doesn’t make sense; you have legs in the place of your arms so you’ll just be a blob with no face but some legs and stuff.’
Fred Jr was deeply offended by this and flew away in a silent huff. The farthest he could fly in the back of the Speedvan was barely over a metre, but he still made his point clear.
After a few seconds, they turned and hugged each other.
“I’m sorry I was so mean!” sobbed the Space Chicken, aloud this time.
‘I am sorry that I have no legs,’ Fred Jr sobbed, and whined telepathically, so that the Space Chicken thought it was just himself crying in his own head.
“You have no legs?” the Space Chicken pondersobbed.
‘I cannot tell. I do not know how I shall look when I hatch.’
“That’s okay,” the Space Chicken sobbed loudly. “I like surprises.”
After several Glix’n Haca (during which time the majority of the gang slept) Dave looked through the misty country and saw a large, unexpected gathering. Dave wanted to say the crowd came into their sights out of the blue, but in reality he knew that, given the varying colours of the grass and the sky, the people before them were out of the green and into the pink. Even larger – though quite expected by now – was a great, red square frustum towering over the pilgrims and taking over the country.
It looked – from above – like a red square within a bigger, darker red square. This whole being of mystery was surrounded by many people, more than would fit in several of the office blocks they had seen earlier. Dave wondered how all these people could have come from this quiet version of Britain and arrived to swarm the Fez. Maybe that’s why there aren’t many cities on Glix, Dave thought. They spend all their time out walking in the countryside. They never had any time for renovation and they have given up on all useful advancements. Although, I’m not sure whether I’d rather have technology or the Fez. The Fez seems pretty good to me.
Dave made the Speedvan turn back on its path and landed on an area of grass from which the Fez was moving away. As they descended and got out of the Speedvan for the final time, they saw the incredible height of the Fez. The cut top of the box was splitting the clouds as they passed it. The landmark was coated in buttons of many colours, but they were mainly shades of grey. This dulled the red glow the Fez gave off in the BongVe Bong light and made it look even more appealing. In a dull, grey way.
The Space Chicken hung around the car, knowing he had a mission to complete, but Dave stumbled off, utterly bewildered by not only the Fez, but also the atmosphere it created. It appeared to be a fantastical celebration of everything Glix’n and was clearly highly-renowned in their culture. The crowd sang and laughed. Somewhere nearby, a band was playing a merry tune. There were popcorn stands and frankfurter stalls. Some people were even camping, pitching their tents above the buttons of the Fez so they were dragged along with it. Even Old Man Tales and Oprah appeared to have made it.
“Now remember what I was telling you earlier,” Oprah was saying patronisingly to the twins. “The Fez is just like a giant Quackday present.”
An elderly figure stepped out of a house in a prime location; currently nearby the Fez. “Clint, Clein, you’ve come to see me!” he rejoiced gladly.
“Not now, Grandad,” Clint said, as the twins walked straight past the cottage and up to the Fez.
“See you later, Grampy Clum,” said Clein. “The Fez is going to give us a Quackday present.”
The Space Chicken attempted to roll his eyes, but (being a being anatomically based upon a chicken) found his eyes couldn’t move, and so made his best attempt to look incredulous, then acquiesced. His phone rang, and Margery asked him not to perform facial gestures which require more than one non-standard term, although admired him for trying to find a place to use an extended lexicon. She also asked if he had informed Sam the frog that ‘cockerel egg’ should have been ‘Cockerel Egg’. Somehow, the Space Chicken didn’t currently have these rules at the forefront of his mind. “Clint and Clein,” he shouted over the brass fanfare. “There is no Quackday present; that was just a metaphor for the Fez itself.”
“What‽” Clint screamed. “You mean we’ve travelled all this way for nothing?” He ran at the Fez in a rage and lunged at a button. He vanished and the Fez moved a metre away from where he had been.
Dave then got a horrible feeling inside him that he wasn’t glad of. He thought that the Fez was using people as its fuel to spread across the country. Clint had already been consumed.
Clein sighed and pressed the button he had travelled for. He vanished.
“Where are they all going?” Dave asked the Space Chicken, a tear beginning in his eye. He noticed that everybody who pushed a button disappeared also. “Are they dying?”
“What‽ No!” said the Space Chicken, more than slightly disgusted by this idea. “They just got the wrong button.”
“Where are they going?”
“Home.”
After staring back at the Fez and pondering, Dave began to understand this object he’d been curious about for the past week; people pressed any button on the Fez and both they and the button disappeared. Only the person got sent home. This button would then be replaced by a new button, often the one from the row above it.
“What happens if they get the right button?”
“They wouldn’t be sent home, but would stay and receive their reward.”
Crazy Dave walked up to the Fez to press his button and try his luck. But then he got bored so he walked home, getting a frankfurter as he went.
Now he was here, the Space Chicken decided he must finally fulfil Quack’s task. He had hitched a ride with another group, like Quack had suggested. Now he needed to search through all the people for the one he needed. The man he was looking for may already be there, but he couldn’t have pressed the button yet, as the Fez hadn’t opened.
Dave stared up in awe at the Fez. It was the most magnificent work of beauty he had ever seen. He found it utterly dazzling. Dave then got worried somebody else may have gotten to the gold button before him. No, of course that couldn’t have happed, Dave decided. That would mean the Fez was already open. He spotted it clinking down into place and he ran over to claim a spot before the orb.
The Space Chicken thought about yelling out the perpetrator’s name, but then decided he was probably using an alias. That was until the Space Chicken spotted something in the driver’s seat of the Speedvan.
“Dave!” the Space Chicken shouted, finally realising what he’d failed to spot all through their travel. “Do not press that button! You are David Gratton!” It all made sense now. Dave had to be David Gratton, and the Space Chicken couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought about this earlier. The one he’d travelled with, but never asked the name of. He and Dave had become best friends, united by their separation from everyone else. Dave couldn’t be evil, surely? But, either way, he was about to push the gold button, open the Fez and unknowingly (or perhaps fully consciously) unleash terror upon the alien planet Glix.
“My name’s David Gray,” he replied, and thrust his hands against the gold button. It was the wrong one.
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