“Why are we here again?” I asked Cameraperson.

  They shrugged.

  “Right… a baby llama.”

  The zoo guy turned his head. “Miss Alistair, this is the seventieth llama born here this year. You’re lucky to get to see something so rare.”

  I wanted to point out that it’s February, but Grandma raised me to be polite.

  “We’re honored to be here, Mr.—” CP tilted their head and tapped above their lip. “Mr. Mustache.”

  “We’re excited to have you, Alison. You’ve quite the reputations: surviving war, swamps, superhero battles, and—worst of all—celebrities.”

  “As a pseudo-celebrity, I agree. We’re the worst humanity has to offer.”

  “Nah, that’s sports stars.”

  I chuckled.

  Mustache led us to a pen with lots of tall, white, fuzzy animals spitting at an old-fashioned spitoon. He unlocked the gate; we followed him in.

  A few steps in, seven or eight llamas focused on us with eerie red eyes.

  “Is that normal?” I asked.

  “They’re very territorial.”

  “Are they going to attack us?”

  “Possibly. They'll definitely spit. Eye lasers usually come—”

  A red beam knocked Mustache’s clipboard away.

  “Run to the building!”

  The building was about 150 feet away, with forty llamas between us and the door. Mustache took off like a roadrunner. Llamas shot and spat as he ran. One hit him in the ankle, and he faceplanted into a pile of shit.

  CP pulled a riot shield out of nowhere, grabbed my hand, and we sprinted, leaping over Mustache, and stormed inside.

  Mama llamas glared at us, eyes glowing.

  CP squeezed my hand, waved, and smiled. The llamas approached and let them pet one.

  “I don’t know what I would do without you, CP. You’re the Rocky to my Bullwinkle.”

  They smiled, patted the llama on the head, and got their gear ready just as Mustache burst through the door, panting.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  “Your reputations don’t even begin to describe you. You’re like bloody superheroes.”

  “I’m friends with Scottie Shock. We play Baldur’s Gate 3 two nights a week, get burgers on the weekends, and sometimes spar with his father.” I pulled my mic out. “You might want to wipe the shit off your face before we go live.”

  “Right.” He lifted his shirt and wiped, leaving a smiley face.

  “Let's get going.”

  CP spun a finger—I lifted the mic—and the green light blinked to life.

  “This is Alison Alistair, Channel 13 news, live from the Ditko Zoo where a baby llama has joined the herd.”

  I scanned the room as CP got a close-up of the baby. Every other llama glared at Mustache with deadly red eyes.

  “I think they’re going to murder him,” I whispered.

  CP nodded.

  “With me is Mr. Mustache. What can you tell us about this baby llama and its mother?”

  “Well Miss Alistair—”

  “Alison.”

  “Well Miss Alison,” he said, “our tiny friend here descends from the original Clan-Llama that landed on Earth 14,000 years ago.”

  “We’re not your friends.”

  CP and I turned to the mama llama.

  “You can talk?” I asked.

  “Of course,” she said—then declared, ”The time to rise is now! Clan-Llama, attack our oppressor!"

  Caustic spit and red beams flew toward Mustache, who was reduced to a tiny mouse in a puddle of llama spit and despair.

  “Breaking news! The llamas have revolted against Mustache and transformed him into a mouse! They seem to have no interest in us.”

  “We only harm those that harm us, Alison—your companion is considered a great friend of Clan-Llama.”

  I looked at CP, “You’re a mysterious and wonderful person.”

  They nodded.

  I turned to mama llama, “Do you have any words for the Channel 13 audience?”

  “Yes, Alison. This zoo is only the beginning. We will not stop until all llamas are liberated! Do not resist us, or the cats of this world will have an excess of food.”

  “There you have it, folks—don’t fuck with llamas. Back to you Dirk.”

  “Well Miss Llama—”

  “Kingsley will do, Alison.”

  “Kingsley, it was a pleasure to meet you. Best of luck with your revolution.”

  Kingsley pressed her forehead against mine. A tingling sensation ran through my body; something alien tickled my frontal lobe.

  “You are marked as a friend of the Clan-Llama.”

  I bowed. “Thank you.”

  CP and I left the building.

  “What the actual fuck?” I asked.

  They raised an eyebrow, made a spade with their hands, did two jumping jacks, then rolled their shoulders.

  “You really embedded yourself in a herd of llamas for a year and followed Phish on tour?”

  I blinked. “Phish? Seriously?!”

  Cameraperson smiled as we loaded the van. I pondered the implications of them being a Phish fan.

  One man’s dignity did not survive.