Backstory

There is a recruiting poster somewhere in chicken country, badly photocopied and nailed to a fence post, that reads: YOUR FARM NEEDS YOU. Below it, in smaller letters, it adds: TRAINING PROVIDED. MISSION UNSPECIFIED. The Suicide Bomber Chicken is the reason that poster worked. It volunteered before anyone finished reading the fine print, signed with an X, and asked only one question: does the mission have explosions?

It did not fully understand the mission. It still does not. What it understands — what it has always understood — is explosions. It understands them the way a musician understands a favourite song: deeply, personally, and with perfect timing. Everything else about the briefing went in one ear and out the other, which is remarkable, because chickens do not have ears.

It is fast, direct and utterly committed. It does not stop for distractions, does not slow for walls, and does not flinch at the sight of your Gatling — it simply closes the distance with the calm of something that has already heard the countdown in its head. The only question on the field is whether it reaches your towers, or your towers reach it first.