I woke to the sounds of rustling. It wasn’t a particularly loud sound, and the unending racket of kek-kek-kek should have made it undetectable, but it was close, and I’d been in this bloody game for long enough that my primitive hindbrain had made me as reactive as a war veteran.

I squinted blearily at Gunga, sleeping in a feathery heap close to the entrance. Snorey-snuffle but no rustle. Even Bert was silent, replete with insect protein and probably thinking up ways of converting it into a nuclear power source.

I shifted creakily to my feet, thankful again for the combination of youthful avatar and reduced pain sensors. If I’d tried sleeping on a stone floor IRL I would’ve been crippled for a week.

Gunga, detecting my movement, gave a strangled sort of moan and shoved her head farther into her back feathers. How the position was remotely comfortable, I had no idea. At that angle her neck tubing was higher than her head.

It seemed cruel to wake her, but I could still hear rustling above us, and my imagination was sending alarming images of what it could possibly be. A burrowing worm, maybe, eating through rock to get to the tender munchies down below? A rat searching for the back entrance to his home—and possibly large, extended family? Or even, if the programmers proved consistent, a combination of the two.

My mind obligingly supplied an image of just such a hybrid.

Right. Best to get while the going’s good.

Gunga grumbled to her feet before spotting the dagger which was covered in insects. In fact, it was less knife than heaving lump at this point. The rhea brightened and set to substantially reducing the island’s entomological diversity in one satisfying meal.

My stomach, far from being revolted, rumbled threateningly. I hadn’t had a meal of any substance for the past three days, and my avatar was considerably less fussy than my real body about where that nutrition came from. I still wasn’t desperate enough to chow down on a moth, however. Instead, I fished inside my holding bag for the last remaining M&Ms. They made my stomach roll a bit (who knew you could get sick of chocolate?), but it soon settled with the onrush of sugar.

The rustling had started up again, a slight shifting of loose grit that put paid at least to my notion of a burrowing mega worm-rat. It sounded more like a sweep than a chomp. An innocent enough sound that I judged safe to investigate.

So I headed for the entrance and after squeezing past Gunga-Din, peered out.

The sun was rising, promising a clear day. And although it was still dim, I couldn’t see anything suspect, at least not from this vantage point.

The other competitors, excepting Outahi, were obviously still abed. Or dead. (Who knew in this place? A giant crab could have scaled the cliffs overnight and crushed them, one by one. Then itself fallen victim to the hungry jaws of Outahi. Those pecs weren’t raised on a diet of veggies.)

The big man in question was still in his position at the cave mouth. He immediately spotted me and I saw his head rise slightly in interest. Probably wondering why the gods hadn’t struck me down for entering their special place. I had gotten the impression that he didn’t believe I was one. Maybe now he would change his mind—though I doubted it. A man like that tended to nod compliantly at superstition but ultimately believe only in what he himself had experienced or found logical. A practical man withal.

I moved to climb up the cave’s side to investigate the intriguing/worrying noise, only for Gunga to poke her head out of the cave’s entrance and warble inquiringly.

When I turned to tell her to stay put, I noticed that Outahi had finally moved from his sentinel position. In fact, he had shot to his feet and was trotting quickly through the birds he had been so careful not to disturb the day before. And they were disturbed. An enormous white sheet of objecting seabirds took to the air, calling wide-awake, wide-awake, in alarm.

The other competitors, drawn by the commotion, tumbled out of their own cave, (not dead!), in a confused huddle that followed Outahi in typical lemming manner.

I was more concerned for Gunga.

“Get back! Back through the barrier, Gunga!” I shooed her back into the cave. Her head popped back inside, but I could still see her silhouette at the entrance.

I jumped down quickly, pushed through the hole, and hurried her to the engraving. It remained stone as I shoved her against it, and it took me a panicked second to remember than the statue was still on the floor, its eyes pointing to the ceiling. I had kept it there as a nightlight.

What’s this? Bert finally contributed. Are we under attack? I sense no immediate threat.

“I think Gunga has just been spotted by a bunch of hungry barbarians. Time to make like a bald man.”

I fail to see the significance...

“Get out of here! I’ll see you on the other side.”

One thing before we go. You might want to look on…on… His voice became strangled and then abruptly shut down.

“It’ll have to wait,” I said, righting the statue into its proper position. Luckily, the wall’s mumbo-jumbo had lost none of its potency and Gunga-Bert were soon on their way back to the South American continent.

I hustled outside and scrambled back up the cave’s side, instinctively heading for high ground, away from an Outahi who was rapidly closing. I had no intention of explaining why and how I was hogging a major food source.

The cave was raised slightly compared to the plain, and led to the island’s peak—what looked like a semi-flat series of grassy humps that would have required a radar to detect which provided the highest altitude.

It was when I had reached the overhang provided by the cave ceiling that I finally found what had made the peculiar rustling sounds that had woken me.

The culprit was a bird, a sooty tern in fact, sitting in a slight hollow in the rocks. It kek-kekked at me warningly like a broody chicken and I was suddenly dive-bombed by its mate.

I ducked back down reflexively. The cute little beaks that had looked so harmless en masse, now looked as dangerous as a sword on the nose of an aircraft piloted by a kamikaze.

Now experience has taught me a few things about birds. Magpies in particular had been a hazard in my childhood. On one notable occasion I was seen wearing an ice-cream container as a helmet by a busload of my fellow high-school students. It was the only time in my school career where everyone looked happy to see me. Downright gleeful, in fact. Not one of my more distinguished memories, granted, but at least it gave me some ideas about how to deal with airborne aggressors.

I plastered myself against the rock, making it impossible for the bomber to approach without dashing himself headfirst into an immoveable surface. Then I threw away knowledge-based logic and edged toward the nest. It had occurred to me that an animal doesn’t protect what it doesn’t value, and that an egg or chick would be the likely treasure.

I also thought I might have misjudged the exact direction of Outahi’s eyes before he’d started running. If he’d seen the nest…

The mother was less than happy about my approach. Her rising level of kek-keks attracted her mate again, who abandoned his airborne defence and landed, rushing my position with both wings outstretched, trying to intimidate me into fleeing.

But this tactic I had also had experience with. Being brought up on a farm that raised ducks that tended to pursue fleeing children and seize their just-the-right-height buttocks, had prompted me to develop my own strategy for dealing with stroppy landbound avians.

I stomped. No, not on the bird himself [see: Pacifist Tendencies]. I stomped in front of it, causing him to startle away in instinctive fright. This left me alone with the female, from whom savage pecks were inevitable. (A hardier breed, mothers.) I could’ve used the grasper to push her off the nest, but I could hear Outahi scaling the rock face, and didn’t want to spare the time.

Shoving my hand underneath the flapping, protesting bird, I felt around, and—

You have been pecked! 2 Hit pts!

You have been pecked! 2 Hit pts!

—my hand soon found the unmistakable outline of a small egg. I carefully retrieved it, suffering a few more blood-drawing pecks before cradling it against my chest.

I grinned triumphantly. Then realised nothing had changed beyond being encumbered by a trophy as fragile as porcelain.

Now what? What was the next part waffly-man itemised? Oh, yes. I had to get to the top of the island and call out what-his-name’s…name.

Oh, shit. I don’t remember his bloody name. Something starting with J. Ji-ji? Jutawits...?

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

Luckily, my feet held no such uncertainty. Just as Outahi reached the nest, I was puffing my way to what seemed to my topographic eye as the slightly higher hump, where I raised my egg hand hesitantly.

Then I figured distance would somewhat distort was I was yelling anyway. Pulling air into my lungs, I used my discordant but powerful voice to scream out:

“JUICYWITS!!”

I’ve always wanted to do that. Shouting from a hilltop in the middle of nowhere. There were very little places left in New Zealand where you wouldn’t be arrested for trespassing, noise pollution, or straight-out lunacy.

A distant cheer came from Easter Island, though I’m sure most were reluctant. The fat were about to get fatter, while the rest starved for the fifth year running. If my own life hadn’t been on the line I would probably have given the egg to someone else, like my sculptor/rock climbing friend.

Speaking of, the younger competitors had ceased their efforts to follow Outahi, huddling miserably together or collapsing to the ground.

But Outahi kept on coming. He was grinning savagely, in such a way that I was not convinced he was coming in for a congratulatory hug. It was unnerving on someone that had previously only displayed a blank slate.

I stepped back a bit, but the hump was alongside a straight drop to the sea and rocks below; no safety there.

He slowed when he was a few metres away, holding out his hand. “Give egg. I deliver to chief.”

“Ah… Pretty sure that’s part of the winning hopuman’s responsibilities. Wouldn’t want to break tradition, eh?” I surreptitiously loosened my lyre with my free hand.

His face crumpled into an unmistakable expression of menace. “Give or die.”

He was a man of few words, but those words could certainly shrivel things inside you that you didn’t know existed. It was probably the same feeling a man had when his reproductive organs ascended. (I’m theorising here—no experience of the phenomenon at all.)

I quickly pocketed the egg, hoping the hole that Bert had created wasn’t big enough for it to fall through. And when he lunged at me, in a move of desperation that would probably showcase in my nightmares for the rest of my life, I deliberately stepped off the cliff edge, whipped out my lyre and sang:

“Your love gives me wiiiings…” while plummeting toward the breakers. I had a moment of absolute terror before my wings flicked out, larger than usual.

Sound Gives You Wings active skill upgraded! Now at Level 3!

I dipped and spun, the muscles across my back aching as I tried to adjust to this new method of flight. From what I could see at the edges of my vision, the clear leaf form of my bumblebee wings had transformed into the multi-brown layers of feathers most commonly seen on birds of prey.

Certainly better for navigating a rough island environment, but a struggle to adapt to. I felt like a baby bird that’s been shoved out of its nest too early, destined for a bumpy—and possibly final—descent.

A shallow wind gust proved to be my saviour. It rushed at just the right position underneath my wings to buoy me upwards, and I hung onto it in a wobbly fashion until it ran out above the islet directly beside Moto Nui.

The landing was equally ungraceful, making me run like a hang glider pilot to try to offset velocity. By the time I slowed, I was teetering on the edge of the islet, and only an experimental shift of my new appendages prevented me from taking another swim.

And there I stood, wings and shoulders heaving, as I caught my breath and settled the warning blip on my UI.

It was only then, above the sound of the terns, that I heard the distant sussurating roars of people chanting from the mainland. “Tangata manu, tangata manu.” They had witnessed the embodiment of their legend—a transformation into the Birdman himself.

I doubted they even knew who their miracle man was. It was too distant to make out any but the most vague impressions. A silhouette of a person with wings flying from the island would be all they could be certain of, although they would know that it had to be one of the Juicywits competitors.

Speaking of which, I could see Outahi rappelling down the Moto Nui cliff at speed, probably hoping to catch up and slaughter me for the egg I was still carrying, lying snug in my pocket.

At least I hoped it was still snug. I reached in to check it was still okay and let out a breath of relief. The flight and unexpected landing hadn’t cracked it. It needed more protection however, and I quickly sorted through my bag to find the cloth that Otahi had stolen for me. It was my go-to as I wasn’t sure what the holding bag would do to the egg.

I swaddled it and tied the ends of the material around my head as Outahi had demonstrated. I still had to get it to the mainland and that was going to require flight or swimming—both of which could prove detrimental to the egg.

Outahi had reached the water.

It was probably bad of me that I immediately hoped he would get eaten by a shark. But he seemed to have some kind of built-in immunity—or they feared him as much as everyone else did. I had little time before he would arrive at the islet.

I flapped my wings and bounced a bit, trying to create lift, but I couldn’t work out how to angle them correctly to meet what little wind was around the low piece of rock. Running helped, but proved inadequate to raise me more than a few centimetres.

I would have to swim.

This proved to be more difficult than expected, as my wings refused to retract, and they both took up the space usually reserved for my lyre and quickly became waterlogged. Hawk wings are not designed for swimming. I had to struggle against their weight in addition to my own.

After less than a minute I was exhausted, and conscious that at my current pace I had no hope of out distancing Outahi.

But strange things had begun happening to my body. My wings started to get smaller and thinner, changing to a deep, shimmering black and shedding water like a squeezed sponge. My skin tingled, a layer of white down appearing along what I could see of my arms, and I felt it sprout underneath my shift, warming my body. IRL the notion of having hair suddenly appear would usually have made me reach hysterically for a razor, but I could feel the difference in my movement, an easing of the effort required to keep me aloft and mobile. It was a welcome relief.

I wasn’t sure what was going on, but I wasn’t questioning my luck—though I did suspect that the ring currently glowing on my finger had had something to do with it.

Resuming my swimming stance, I began a breaststroke to keep the egg from the water, and found myself helped along by wings that copied my movements.

By this point Outahi was ten metres away and keeping up with me—but barely. My adaptation into a penguin had neutralised his advantage.

It was still a slog. The muscles in my back had never been used in such a way and protested the abuse. Arms very quickly grew tired and I had to grit my teeth and fight through the pain to keep them moving. However, the dorsal fin that had taken to following us like a curious mongrel, and the equally dogged pursuit of Outahi, proved to be adequate motivation.

The mainland got close enough for me to see faces along the shoreline, shouting encouragement that could barely be heard above the surf and the sound of my own heart pounding in my ears. The fire that would take my swimming togs was a pyre in my mind’s eye.

I could see the faces turn blank with astonishment as I approached, my legs finding the ocean floor. The tiny body feathers receded as I stumbled out of the water, but it was obvious that the crowd had seen enough to make even the least devout pious. A muumur of tangata manu could be heard again as I flopped onto the shore, careful to keep myself on my back to protect the egg.

Speaking of... I looked around, trying to find my patron so I could offload my responsibility and hopefully get off this island.

“Juicy?” I questioned a woman nearby, who looked momentarily confused, but then…honoured?…by the request.

She pointed up…up…uuuup to the crater rim where we had begun this mad quest.

You have got to be shitting me, I thought incredulously. He can’t even be bothered to climb down to meet me?

A splashing from behind me indicated that Outahi was reaching shore. He probably wouldn’t mug me with an audience, but the nooks and crannies of the cliff ascent would provide him with numerous opportunities.

I had to get a wriggle on. Pushing my body to its limits, I rose to my feet and hastened into the rocks to begin the climb.

Outahi was less than a minute behind, but I had a plan. It was a plan both dangerous and hair-raising but it had worked before. And repetition breeds success, I assured myself.

Climbing, scrambling, slithering, I sent my abused body up amongst the boulders, not bothering to test them for structural integrity. I didn’t have the time. Hopefully any loose stones will be sent down onto Outahi, my increasingly blood-thirsty side suggested.

He was still getting closer, his reach and experience with climbing making me the loser in this particular race. A near miss involving one of my feet and one of his hands prompted me to execute my plan earlier than I had hoped.

Raising wings that had since returned to their brown-feathered state, I jumped off a large boulder, closed my eyes at the last minute, then opened them as I spun out and grazed against the rock face.

Outahi took the opportunity presented, setting himself against the rock and pushing with his feet and arms to send his body out into the air, reaching to grab me with the unflagging determination of a Terminator.

A spurt of panic and a lucky thermal pulled me upwards as he neared me, his fingers striking my boot and fingernails hitching before gravity finally caught up and he slid away, falling to the waiting rocks below.

I didn’t wait to hear the crunch; I was too busy trying to find a thermal that didn’t want to send me in the same direction. Luckily, the Orongo cliff was a lot taller than the one at Moto Nui. It provided me with ample teaching opportunities and a fierce wind current that allowed me to simply hang on and follow it to the best of my ability.

Flapping and wriggling I discovered to be a bad idea, so I tried to keep as still as possible, hoping that the less than aerodynamic nature of a human body wouldn’t prove to be my undoing. (I’m pretty sure early airmen discovered this fairly quickly when they donned manufactured wings and jumped off roofs.)

At least it proved faster than climbing. Within a matter of minutes, I crested the cliffs of Orongo, manoeuvred a little too close for comfort to the swampy inside of the crater, and finally settled on the soft roof of a hut for a landing.

I just hoped no one was already inside it.

My worry proved to be for naught, though it took me a while to find my way out of all that cloth. It had doubled back on itself under the force of my weight, making it impossible to make out where any potential exits could be. I didn’t want to use my dagger as I doubted the natives would appreciate it; making it must have been a difficult process for a people that had no recourse to animal hide.

Hell, if the penalty for failure in a competition is death, then I’d hate to know what the penalty is for destruction of private property.

It was with a red face and bruised knees that I emerged from my envelopment, discovering that the spectators had lost no time in converging on my location.

And that the flasher was back to his old tricks.

Raising his arms, he beamed mightily and strutted towards me, like a bat with no fur.

“Vî’e Kenatea, you have proven to be almost as remarkable as your brother!” he cried in his most offensive manner. “Don’t you agree, Junajiti?”

The big chief just grunted, but my eye was drawn to the circle of baldness on the top of his head. It had been painted a bright white. A new development. And rather amusing to look at. Like an Easter Island version of Friar Tuck.

“Junajiti has prepared for your arrival,” chatty man hinted, eyeing my own forehead and raising diminutive eyebrows—perhaps his idea of a wink.

I suddenly realised what everyone was waiting for: The egg. The end of the quest. I untied and unwound the egg slowly—dropping it now would be an unmitigated disaster—and fished it out to hand off to Juicy. Or whatever the hell his name was.

He took it, cracked it carefully against a nearby stone, then held it above his head, separating the shell and swallowing the insides raw.

Eww. At least I was thinking ‘ew’. My empty metabolism was maybe thinking yum.

Challenge of the Birdman quest completed!

Reward for survival: 3000 gold coins!

Reward for completion: Map of Mystery!

Reward for completion: Birdman Trophy!

Reward for completion: 2000 XP!

A tiny scroll appeared on the top of my UI, along with an arrow that indicated it could be hidden. I would take a look at it just as soon as the two goons who had picked me up released me.

“Ah, guys? What are you doing?”

“Taking you to the feast.”

My heart sank to my toes.