Chapter Text
One summer night, Chicken Little finds himself wide awake, showing no signs of nodding off anytime soon. A fleeting glance at his alarm clock shows it’s only fifteen minutes past midnight.
He's a little embarrassed to confess how many times he’s been up and about at that hour lately. Really, when you think about it, was it his fault there was so much stuff to do late at night? Some games were good enough to beat in one sitting, the ever-so-exhilarating Ace Commander 1.5 coming to mind: the spinoff of the game that was loosely based on the movie, which was even more loosely based on their lives.
Abby claimed the developing relationship between her character and his is the real heart of the game, swooning and sighing at every interaction between the two whenever she came by his house to watch him play. An intergalactic romance, Runt would add on.
Romance? In the game where you spend 90% of the time blowing stuff up, cracking secret codes (alright, he had Fish to thank for that...), all the guns and asteroids and self-destructing robots, and it's supposed to be some kinda- what, a love story? He's the one who needed glasses outta the four of them?
When games began to feel repetitive, his comic book collection growing stale and predictable, there'd at least be his friends to look forward to…on a good night. Runt insisted on using walkie-talkies, only for him to have a strict bedtime. Even during the summer? Sucks to be him. Fish was offered a walkie-talkie too, though their contrasting housing situations quickly became a problem…water and electricity don't mix very well. If he’s lucky, Abby’s still awake, and they’d talk in hushed whispers over the phone until dawn crept up on them…or their parents.
On those nights, though, he could at least say he was tired. That’s where the fun came from! Ask anyone, being on the brink of exhaustion brought the excitement out of even the most mundane activities. Sleep was the reward! If he wanted to, and he truthfully did, he could at least will himself to sleep. Three seconds, and he's out like a light.
There wasn’t much he felt like doing tonight. His dad had the TV for the night for a dose of reruns (though by now, it's more likely the TV was watching him instead), and Abby fell asleep hours ago, their phone call session already out of the way and ending with the promise they would all hang out tomorrow morning. Naturally, he decides to follow suit, call it for tonight.
Three seconds go by to no avail, and now he’s here. Looking up at the ceiling to make out non-existent shapes, in hopes that straining his eyes would be enough to do the trick. It only leaves him at the threshold of a headache.
There was a sense of unease he couldn’t shake. It clings to him, and trying to push it aside only makes its demands for attention louder tenfold. Familiarity strikes, and apprehension's second cousin moves right on in — frustration.
It can't be back, it can't be. Not when he was finally having a good run, Universe, you can't hit him with this now! A year and a few months had gone by without a single trace of...of this. All his hopes of finally nipping this issue in the bud, beating it once and for all, come crashing down like a snap. He's supposed to be getting better. He was!
Man. Man, just his luck. That's stupid! There shouldn't be a reason for him to be all clammy and jittery inside. He was living the life he was meant to live, the very life he found himself wishing for, pleading for. A normal life, like a normal kid.
Chicken Little, until this very moment, had been at a point in his life where he could say, ten toes down, he was truly happy. And, do forgive him if such a claim neared the borders of bragging, he had every right to be! To come back from what was unmistakably the worst year of his entire life the way he did was nothing short of a miracle, an improbable feat. A weird one, and it almost got everyone in town disintegrated to smithereens, but look...the important thing was that everyone made it out in one piece.
A tarnished image people dragged through the mud, trampled on, ripped to shreds, and kicked for good measure, was now one everyone adored. A film of his mockery was quickly switched to one in his honor. People didn't look at him like he was a few cents short of a dollar, they took him seriously now! Did any of those things scream for a cause of apprehension?
The biggest relief to come out of this, what really made his heart sing, was that things were finally back to normal with his father. No longer is he subjected to sour looks of shame; their conversations aren't full of forced laughs and nervous coughs, and Chicken Little isn’t constantly wracking his brains for solutions on how to make his old man proud of him. How to get him to love him again in general. To hear it, to know his efforts had paid off, it was better than any award the town could’ve given him.
He would've cried if you told him a year ago that things would change for the better. Never would he have thought it would go this well. Perfect. Everything is perfect, he tells himself over and over in an attempt to get it to stick, and he'd be a fool to go and ruin it.
Too bad this wretched brain of his, the mortal enemy he was chained to for life, was struggling to grasp an easy concept. For fourteen years, there's been this small, insignificant bit in there that never shuts up, always blaring warnings of danger for every step he took.
Well, hearing it was one thing, but listening to it was a whole different ballpark. Those days are over; he's not falling down that path again. Not now, not ever.
Nothing was wrong. Nothing, nothing, nothing. He's not letting this get the better of him.
He's stronger than paranoia. Look at his dad, do you see him looking over his shoulder at every sound? No, you don't! So you'd best believe Chicken Little would follow in those footsteps yet again. Paranoia feeds off its environment...like, you know, a host! Parasites, leeches, and all of the sort! In his case, the host was something he'd been wanting to get rid of the second he hit elementary school.
If he could only manage to find a way to squash his imagination, he'd be set for life.
He just- he knows it's a part of him, every kid has one to some degree, but for as long as he could remember, Chicken Little absolutely could NOT stand it. Everything his imagination gets its greedy claws around becomes ruined. The word sounded so positive, a trait people encouraged amongst the youth, only for it to bring havoc to his life for years on end. Since birth. His folks would tell the story time and time again — he'd been so afraid to come out of his shell that he stayed in there for eighteen entire days. His dad chuckled about it, being the one to stick by his side the entire time while his mother got her much-deserved rest, but Chicken Little was never sure whether it was one of fondness or exasperation.
Sometimes...and he knew it was a terrible thing to want for himself, so he's never told anyone, but...if he could go back and ask the aliens to rearrange his brainwaves instead, he would. Have at it, he'd tell them, scorch every ounce of imagination in his small frame to Timbuktu. Let them do whatever they had to do, no matter how bad it hurt — get rid of it, tell it to kick rocks, please let the door hit it on the way out. What was he thinking, letting a perfect chance slip from his feathers?
So there wasn't an easy way to deal with the imagination part at the moment, but the nerves? There's gotta be some other way to shake it. The next best thing, for the moment, was to stick to his dad's old advice. Lay low, and don't draw attention to himself. Negative attention.
Oh, he could hear Abby now...closure this and closure that! Him, his dad, talk talk talking until there's a solution to the problem, he gets that! Modern Mallard wasn't full of baloney, compliments to the publisher, but he...he can't go through this again. What could he even tell his dad? Where's his reason? Dumb reasons were a heck of a lot easier to explain than what was equivalent to thin air.
He was so nervous he couldn't catch a wink of sleep, and he didn't know why—how's that gonna look, coming out of nowhere on a Thursday morning??
Don't get him wrong...it's not that he felt he had to earn his father's approval anymore. Things have been getting better. Chatter is nearly nonstop at dinner, they've gone to see a couple of ballgames together, and not a day goes by that Buck isn't reminding him how much he loves him. Was it so wrong to put a little effort into making sure things stayed that way?
The guy's had enough issues on his plate to reach a ceiling, issues Chicken Little added to day by day. He's cost them millions in property damage ever since he was six.
There's the first-day-of-school-jitters incident when he started kindergarten, when he mistook a shadow on the wall as a blood-sucking monster that was out for them all. Mass panic ensued (though it's more questionable why the staff believed him), a call to his parents once the realization hit them, and a conference later, arrangements were made for him to be moved to a different class.
Then again when he spotted the fangs on his new teacher (a vixen), and had convinced his classmates she was a werewolf in disguise, resulting in a hospital trip Buck had to pay for out of pocket. Rumor has it? The teacher retired not too long after the fact.
Rinse and repeat. The teachers played a game of hot potato with every new mishap, every setback, every time he fell victim to his overactive imagination, all the way until middle school. Students, the perceptive critters they were, began to sense patterns in the chick's abnormalities. The way he's never in the same class for the entire semester. Outside of that, the little things, the traits that begin to raise brows the more you look at him. He's jumpy with sudden noises, quick to make a mountain out of a molehill, and it doesn't take long for him to earn the title as the class...er, freak, as a nice way of putting it. He had to imagine that sending a teacher to the emergency room didn't do too much to help in those regards, either. Take his nervousness out of the equation, and there's still the glaring oddity of his height...or rather, the lack thereof. Being a good head shorter than his classmates, even as young as they were, automatically put a target on his back. Preschool was rough, let him tell ya.
Bullying…well…bullying was…
It's not easy to look back on. Holding grudges isn't a sentiment Chicken Little believes in, but he'd be lying if he said the sight of Foxy Loxy doesn't make him uncomfortable to this day, regardless of her shift in personality. As much as he likes to tell himself he wasn't too bothered by the torment she put him through for all those years, the ache in his heart doesn't lie. She was ruthless in every way imaginable.
In elementary school, she was your typical school bully. Discriminating him from games, mocking his glasses by putting circled fists over her eyes, calling out his height by comparing it to soda cans, glue sticks, thumbtacks, whatever's the first to catch her keen eye. Sensitive at heart, he'll admit it, it did hurt. Foxy and Goosey hadn't become friends yet, sparing him from anything further than name-calling and needling, but every day she spent hounding him was a day he spent on the brink of tears.
Around middle school, they grew more perceptive to their surroundings and those who were in it. Foxy noticed everything. She remembered everything. And just like that, one day in the gymnasium, she dredged up those kindergarten incidents of his and loudly reenacted them in front of everyone, her audience jeering in a chorus that made his heart drop to his stomach. The recirculating story makes its way through every grade in the building like some butchered game of telephone, warping, worsening.
In class, three desks across from him, she would make snide comments and cover them up with exaggerated coughs. Teachers caught on, maybe reprimanded her if there was an uproar in giggles, but pushed on with the lesson.
In hallways, the cafeteria, outside, anywhere free of adult supervision, she's bolder, her smile venomous and exciting. Every day came a new joke, a new name, another teasing comment purposefully loud enough for anyone near them to hear.
He blocked most of it out, but some words dig too deep to ignore.
"My parents said you'd be better off in one of those…now what do they call 'em, mental in-sti-tutions, and I think they're right. Don't you, Mr. Twiddles?"
She asked once during recess as he read under a tree, leering over him with a warm smile. Her eyes were anything but, mocking and waiting. Always waiting. Reactions, she thrived on, and no matter how hard Chicken Little tried to keep a straight face, something had to give. She'd make sure of it. Sure enough, his brow twitched, and it's just the opening she needed.
"Now-now, don't get your feathers all in a bunch! I'm suggesting from the goodness of my heart!" A hand rested on her chest, "You know, the teachers caught wind about your little…mishap, and I hear 'em, and they're wonderin'…well, it's only a matter of time before that nutcase has another episode — who's getting sent to the hospital next, huh? Or what if it's the morgue this time? And I know you didn't do it on purpose, oh bless your heart, but I just think for everyone's safety you should…look into it, you know? With your Daddy? Heaven knows how hard this must be on him, having a son whose brain doesn't work quite right. Aw, I just- I just pity you."
Chicken Little thinks that's the first time he's ever wanted to fight back. He wanted to hurt her as much as she's hurt him. Just once did he want to wipe that grin off her face, to tell her to shut up, something, anything. Consequences are the only reasons he kept quiet — Foxy knew how to spin a story like nobody's business. A story that'll only get him into an after-school detention.
Foxy never hit Chicken Little all too often, running along with the gag of catching nerd cooties if she touched him, which was where her lackey came in. A 3-foot-tall, 98-pound goose that was dropped as an egg a couple of hundred times. There weren't bruises, no marks or blood to give away their dirty work — even if they had left a visible injury, chances are the principal would've looked the other way. Everyone's favorite student against Chicken Little, who do you think he'd stick up for?
Just because Goosey was careful didn't mean she was anywhere near gentle. Countless times did he have to pass off a weird limp as a leg cramp to his dad after school.
He knows he's not special for getting bullied. Abby got torn to shreds on the regular over her looks, Runt was belittled for his weight, and Fish caught a lot of flak for existing…but Foxy got a wicked sense of joy from picking on Chicken Little specifically. To this day, he still doesn't understand what about him made him her…favorite, in a peculiar, twisted way. Why him? Unfortunately, he doesn't think he'll ever get an answer.
She's different now…not as if she had a choice in the matter, but that's another topic Chicken Little doesn't like thinking about. He doesn't hate her, but forgiveness isn't something he's willing to relinquish so easily…is that still holding a grudge? Acting friendly towards her isn't an issue; he'll smile at her and wave if she does it first.
He still doesn't like her, but where's the proof that she likes him?
Whenever she's around, normally to make kissy faces at Runt, Chicken Little's quick to find a reason to excuse himself.
Looking at her brings back memories. Foxy's the reason why he hated school. She's the reason why he hated his glasses, his height, his hobbies, his brain…well, that last part, he's still not fond of. Everything else? It took years for him to stop thinking of his glasses as dorky, or reading didn't make him all girly and weird. He was weird — is weird — but reading's got nothing to do with it.
Does he think she deserves what happened to her? Does he feel sorry for her? He reckons so. If it helps, he'd rather it were him instead of her. That way, she could still be herself — and happy — and he could be fixed. They'd both be happy!
Though if she went back to regular, making-his-life-miserable Foxy, then there wouldn't exactly be an apology, now would there? That's…okay. Seriously, that's okay! He's not begging for one. It'd be nice to have one, but he doesn't need it. Besides, it wasn't all bad! Nah, she might've been brutal, but it never broke him down…much.
Chicken Little had never been one to let things keep him down for too long, bright-eyed and bushy (or feathery, in this case) tailed by nature. Focus on the positives, his mother always preached, and his came in the form of Runt, Abby, and Fish. Abby never thought his imagination was too much. Runt thought he was the smartest guy in town. Fish liked his glasses.
Hey, he liked them too! He liked himself. He likes himself, he honestly does, it's his image he had a problem with! It's the same image that had followed him throughout elementary and middle school like a pesky bug — no offense to bugs — so when junior high rolled around, he was more ecstatic than the average kid. A new era, he had been hopeful way back then, a chance for him to shake his image of the class freak and fit into a box of normalcy like everyone else. Say goodbye to parent-teacher conferences every other week and hello to their soon-to-be football star of a son!
Sadly, the football thing never came to be, missing the weight limit by a good 100 or so pounds. Shortcomings in sport aside, for a while, there had at least been an air of serenity. Stability. Where it came from, nobody knew, but he didn't dare question it. His stomach didn't hurt so much, and he wasn't jumping with every creak of the house. He could see the relief in his father's eyes then, imagine his thoughts. 'My boy's normal after all! He grew out of it!'
He thanked the stars he had a somewhat better grip on himself by then...
As history would tell, not too much better. An acorn fell on his head only a few months into seventh grade.
The aftermath was…was phew, that's what it was. Being the school's freak show was promoted to being the entire town's, and had they gone with the original plans for the movie, possibly all of America. Cameras in his face everywhere he went, blinding him with flashing lights. Reporters spit-balling one soul-crushing question after another…some of them not even questions. Merhandising was inescapable. The book-on-tape, the coasters, the toys, the t-shirts — anywhere he looked, his mistake stared right back at him.
He'd been right all along, yeah, but that didn't take away the 365 days his dad spent doing damage control, carrying the burden of his blunder everywhere they went. It didn't take back the thousands of angry phone calls and emails he had to manage day in and day out, and it didn't take back the never-ending onslaught of chagrin that came with being the "Crazy Little Chicken"'s father. Chicken Little almost felt as if he owed his dad the normalcy.
His mom was always going on and on about how he should be proud to have a mind as bright as his. One day, she vowed it, he'd go on to do great things with that vivid imagination. It's a gift people could only dream of having.
At the same time, she's seen for herself how bad things could get. She's spent countless nights with Dad in the kitchen, fretting over what they were going to do with him, how they were gonna fix whatever mess he had gotten them into, why he seemed to struggle more and more with each passing year. He saw the looks in their eyes, more so his dad than his mom. Out of all the kids in the world to be stuck with…why him, huh?
He never said it outright, but he didn't have to. Chicken Little didn't have the sturdiest mind out there, but he's not dumb. It's the same look, the same glint, he saw in his father's eyes for the entire year following the acorn incident. If his dad could've swapped Chicken Little out for another kid back then, he would've done so in a heartbeat.
His imagination was supposed to bring good to the world in the future? The same imagination that ruins everything it comes across, relationships and all? He's way past good on that.
4:58
From the looks of it, he's way past sleep, too.