Summary: Taylor is a very large dragon. She finds that it has its ups and downs.
The footage still hadn't been released to the public yet. Dennis didn't let that stop him.
"Stop right there."
He pointed at the screen. On the screen was footage from a security camera, it showed the side of a school. Dennis didn't know the school very well, but had heard only bad things, and so was not particularly invested in its wellbeing. There was nothing interesting or unique about this particular frame of footage.
"Forward a bit?"
Chris scrolled through a few seconds; resigned. The screen flickered. Nothing changed.
"Little more?"
More scrolling.
At first glance it was difficult to understand exactly what was happening; it looked as though it were a frame from different footage; such as a volcanic eruption. But upon closer examination Dennis could pick it apart and identify the pieces.
That was the wall. The pieces are airborne, riding along the shell of a shockwave.
That was the ceiling, maybe?
That was probably the floor of the second story.
Lockers...
Dennis shouldered Chris off the mouse, frustrated by his taunting obliviousness, and went through the footage himself. There! It seemed to appear between one frame and the next.
That’s a tail. It's as thick around as the giant Oak at the park, and just as long.
That's a wing. It could throw shade over an Olympic size swimming pool.
The shoulders terminate at twice the height of the school, as broad as a classroom; anything above them was out of view of the camera; the school wasn't exactly worried about sky crimes, so he couldn’t begrudge them.
"See, right there." Dennis pointed at the screen, cycling back and forth between frames: dragon; no dragon; dragon; no dragon. "Did you catch that? I don't know if you caught that. It's really subtle, but if you pay close attention..." His finger went to the dragon - then down, narrowing on the bottom corner of the screen. "Enhance..." He zoomed in there. "Enhance..."
"Dude-"
"Shh... Sh... Look." He played a small section of the footage back and forth, the window zoomed in to focus on a pixely shape in the bottom corner. "There's a pigeon right there." Plunk, went his finger against the glass. Indeed it was a pigeon. The shape was clear enough; folded wings, little stubby feet, a hint of a white band marking the crest around the neck. "He doesn't even care. Look."
back - forth - back - forth; the bird-shape unruffled by the chaos unfolding around it.
"He's not moving," said Dennis. "Look, he's just eating some bread or something! This is the real story! This is the story the news outlets don't want you to hear! Our birds are evolving to become fearless!"
A jug of milk passed over the checkstand scanner. It went, beep.
The chocolate chips... beep...
The whipping cream.
Taylor's eyes lingered on two candy bars they'd snuck onto the belt; watching them inch to the cashier at the end, enraptured and paralyzed with anticipation: would they would be noticed?
Emma was there, too. Her cohort in crime. She had her wiles about her still. Instead of vibrating suspiciously she took a magazine off the rack and flicked through; the very picture of disinterest. While inside - how her heart must have been racing.
Taylor held her breath as candy reached the cashier. The cashier rang them up. They joined the bags. Taylor watched the transaction; elated and biting her lip. Her dad hadn't noticed. She turned and made brief eye contact with Emma-
It wasn't about the candy. Her mother's chocolate pancakes waited for them at home. It was about victory. It was about how very sneaky and subtle they were. This would be a secret between the two of them; the time that they'd pulled wool over her old man’s eyes. All this passed between them in that moment, no words needed.
Taylor couldn't remember how old she was, just that it was an age where she was forever the height of things; able to rest her chin on the kitchen counter if she stood on her toes. She remembered how happy she was, in that moment. This swelling sensation in her chest, the urge laugh, how she couldn't wait to get to the parking lot and load into her dad's truck; buckle into the back and drive home with the wind in her hair. Her heart ached. She wondered when things went wrong.
Taylor said as much aloud, but there was no reply. There was only her to give one.
The shipyard was a place of wide swathes of pocked concrete, punctuated by stacks of shipping crates, rusted out cranes and decrepit construction vehicles; home to strays, vagrants, and other, more nefarious things. She had heard as much at least; knowing that there were parts of the city a young girl should take care to avoid.
Thus went the reputation at least, but she'd seen no activity of any variety since landing. Not even stray dogs. She had a sneaking suspicion as to why. There was an old mattress near her, propped against a wall. It seemed to her like a graham cracker laid against a dollhouse.
Part of Taylor felt that she should panic. This was the same part of her that still wondered if she was awake. But dreams rarely felt so real once she'd thought to question them. Then the critical part of her mind would wake up and she would notice the unreality; the fakeness of things. That hadn't happened yet.
The remaining parts of her didn't care if it was real; if she was awake or asleep, or still trapped in that box, crying and delirious, or maybe freed now, laid up in some hospital bed with her father worrying over her. The thought passed through her once, then dropped; considered and forgotten.
Taylor smelled the ocean. She felt sunlight on her back and on her wings. When she raised her head she saw blue sky spreading above her; not a flat plane but some vast spherical surface, wrapping about her head as though she were within a dome. Its view was unobstructed. Her head would rise above the nearby warehouse even with her body on the ground. For the first time in what seemed forever Taylor felt that the world was not so large or frightening, and were it a dream, then it was a pleasant one, and she should take her time waking from it.
That being the case, she thought, what do you do when you dream?
Taylor stewed on it, as unfortunately no one else could for her, at the moment. She answered: you fly, of course.
She spread her wings. A storm of gravel and sliding shipping crates bore her up. With two flaps the shipyard was beneath her, and now shrunk smaller and smaller. She rose in the winding circle of a passenger jet; wider across at the tips of her wings, and far longer from her head to the tip of her tail.
She saw birds as she flew. They didn't shy from her. If she slowed to glide when they were near they would drift behind, taking cover in her slipstream. She saw that their wings moved when they flew; careful twitches of feathers and muscles, accounting for the slightest change in air currents. Taylor's didn't. She didn't feel like a creature of delicate movement, like a bird, with hollow bones and downy feathers. She felt like momentum. Like a ram with its head low.
Taylor flew higher. When she looked down she saw rectangular plots of the countryside up north, all different colors and sizes, piecemealed together. She saw the crosshatched lines of the suburbs down south; peppered throughout them were green trees, parks and fields. She saw the roads. They sectioned the city off into rectangles and trapezoids, overlapping and crossing as they wove together, but ran loose and serpentine as they left to wind up countryside, purple and foggy with distance.
Taylor flew higher still. She reached above the clouds now. The sky was mostly clear this day, and the few clouds there looked like formless mist, dye spreading in water. Civilization spread below her. Its edges barely seemed to curve, instead it was as though she flew over a vast, flat plane, extending beyond what her eye could distinguish in every direction.
Here Taylor knew she was awake. Dreams didn't stomach exploration for long. Books would have empty pages. Mirrors would show distorted reflections. The more she explored the fantastic landscape, the more her critical mind would wake, and eventually she would know the weight of her limbs against her mattress, and the dream would slip between her fingers no matter how hard she tried to hold it. This was real.
The air was clean, cold, and whistling faintly in her ears. All else was quiet. Her eyes were front facing, but she couldn't quite see down over the length of her muzzle, so when she pointed directly ahead she lost all sense of scale or direction, and it was is if she were floating in an expanse of deep blue. She felt as though she could keep going, rise up into the cold void of space and fly among the stars. But it was only a passing fancy, and not a very good one.
Here Taylor looked down after a long period of looking only straight, and found she could no longer see Brockton below her. She turned and saw it had drifted behind; recognizable now only by the bay.
She circled gently about and went back. She didn't need to flap; high enough to glide down on lazy wings, feeling very much like a plane coming in for landing. Brockton had always been her home, through good and bad. Her heart felt strange for having traveled so far from it; light and flitting, on the cusp of being unpleasant.
Taylor landed in the shipyard once again. It hadn’t changed in her absence.
"Well, then. Um…."
The day was young, only half-gone at most. Taylor looked around and felt the weight of the hours she had left. So much time in a day.
She set to moving some shipping crates. They had been big, once. Eight-by-eight-by-twenty feet long; roomy enough to walk with wide arms and jump without bumping her head. Now five of them stacked would reach her shoulder while she stood on all fours.
She took the many crates cluttered around the shipyard and made a house. It wasn't a very good house. The walls rose only three crates high, as any more became untrustworthy and difficult to manage. There were only three walls, and the walls weren't very long. There was no roof. Really it was a horseshoe, not a house.
Moving the crates was an effort. Taylor couldn't pick them up and walk about on her hind legs, she'd look silly. Instead there was much dragging and three-legged clomping and finally construction with motions like taking a pie out of the oven – not because they were heavy, but because they felt so airy and fragile. Taylor discovered that she had horns - when a crate got stuck on them.
Half an hour of unearthly screeching, rending metal later and her home was done. Taylor paced about it, inspecting it. She might have felt pride, if she wasn't taller than it. She could barely fit in, even curled up. Her eyes narrowed - could she actually fit in it, she wondered.
She now made to test this theory, carefully entering headfirst and walking a circle; lying down; getting her arms and legs folded comfortably. Her head and tail poked out beyond its confines, and it was only barely tall enough to shield her from sight, even with her flat on the ground, but it felt nice to have something at her back, and to have accomplished a minor victory.
Now Taylor turned to the sun and saw how little it had fallen, and her head fell; weary. So much time in a day when she lacked the means to spend it. One long, sharp nail plucked at the concrete as she thought on the things she could do.
Here her mind went to the usual suspects, shooting them down as quickly as she provided them. As her mood fell, she noticed something approaching from the bay. It was a little quad-copter; four rotors spread around a center pillar about the size of a refrigerator – though now seeming about as big as a soda can. It was quiet for its size, but still loud enough for her to hear coming from far away.
It buzzed closer at a relaxed clip, then eased down into a landing position. Taylor didn't move for fear of scaring off this new distraction; with blinky lights and spinny things.
"... lo," went the machine, faint and tinny.
Taylor inched her head forward to better hear, her features narrowed with uncertainty.
"Hello!" went the machine. It had a woman's voice; pleasant to the ear and faintly accented.
Taylor moved closer still, itching to find where exactly on the device the sound was coming from, as she'd always had a soft spot for blinky little gizmos, but found that she'd already reached the end of her neck, and there was no more slack to give. "Hello."
A pause.
The machine said, "It's nice to meet you. My name is Dragon. Do you have a name?"
Here Taylor recognized the situation for what it was. "Yes, my name is Grognak. The Destroyer."
"Grognak?"
"Yes, Grognak."
Then Dragon said with no hint of mockery: "It's an honor to meet you, Grognak the Destroyer."
Taylor felt cringing regret take root in her heart. "My name is Taylor. And you don't have to do that."
"Well it's an honor to meet you, Taylor."
"You d... If you say so."
"How are you feeling?"
Taylor sighed, going over the real answers in her head and ruling them out one by one, as they seemed very petty to bring up in present company. Finally she answered, only half-joking, "Big?"
"Are you hungry? I can get you-"
"I'm not hungry."
"Okay. I'm glad to hear that. In the meantime, is there anything that you need? Anything I can do for you?"
A pause.
Taylor asked, "How's the school?"
Now Dragon paused at the deflection. "The eastern wing was heavily damaged. As was the surrounding area."
"Damaged, huh?"
The machine didn't comment.
"Was anyone hurt?"
"There are no known fatalities at this time, and everyone is expected to make a full recovery."
"So that's a yes, then." Taylor thought back to her last moments on campus. Though muted now with time and distance, she still felt something heavy knotting in her stomach. "Good."
The machine didn't reply.
"Oh, don't worry. I don’t really mean that. I don’t want anyone dead. Just maybe… roughed up for once. They weren't very good people. And I'm sure the wrong ones took the brunt of it. That's how it usually goes. I won't apologize, but I could pretend to have worried about them, if you want."
Another pause. Then Dragon said with a voice so level it could have been modulated, "You have reason to be angry. I won't ask you to apologize. Is there anything we can do for you?"
Here Taylor started thinking, and the thinking turned to ruminating, which she found was just the same as thinking only in a very sour direction.
"Taylor?"
"Are you worried about me?"
The machine didn't answer.
"You're talking to me through an empty probe. And so nicely. Are you afraid of me? I'd understand. It would make sense. I wondered what everyone else was doing back in the city. It's gone a little quiet."
"We're not afraid of you."
Taylor imagined that wasn't a line typically used to reassure someone, and wondered who it was for. "We, again? Who else is there?"
Dragon didn't tell her.
"It's fine. I'm not offended." Taylor brushed out of the stacks of shipping containers, going to the machine. It seemed smaller the closer she got, and now, standing over it, it resembled little more than a soda can lined with paper umbrellas. "Are you still there?"
"I'm here, Taylor."
"Are you all listening?"
"They can hear."
"Okay. Please listen carefully. I'm only saying this once, but you can record it if you want, so every time someone worries about it you can just load it up and show it to them." Taylor bowed her head so that the many hidden cameras, no doubt focused on her, could properly see the sincerity in her eyes. "My name is Taylor Hebert, and I don't want to hurt anybody. Did you get that?"
The reply came moments later, noticeably less earnest. "Yes. I got it."
Taylor felt like a bully. She fell back on her haunches, giving the probe room to breathe. "Okay. Good, I meant it."
"Taylor?"
"Yes?"
"Really, can I get you anything?"
Taylor measured if it would be more polite to accept or decline now. Then she remembered her lack of outlets and the decision tilted heavily in one direction. "I'd like a book to read. If you wouldn't mind."
"A particular book?"
Taylor felt the number of the hours she had left in the day. "A very large one."
"Okay. We'll figure something out."
"Thank you." Taylor turned to her crates, but then Dragon said:
"In the meantime, I can have this read for you, if you'd like?"
"I... Would like that."
Taylor curled back into her fort and got comfortable, because it didn't feel quite right to be read to while standing in the open. She bumped a wall and toppled it noisily, but the pressure was strangely comforting, like the weight of a blanket, so she pretended not to notice. The probe whirred to life and drifted closer, settling very near. "Did you have something specific in mind?"
"I hadn't thought that far ahead. Would you pick something for me?"
. . . . .
"...Are you just going down my eighth grade summer reading list?"
"They're called classics for a reason. And I'm willing to bet you don't remember Tom Sawyer nearly as well as you think you do."
"I don't take that bet only because I don't know what I'd do with your money."
Dragon and Taylor, the dragon, were getting along now, going by their conversation. Dragon spoke easier. Taylor felt comfortable enough to joke. The tensions of the hastily assembled conference had already reached their peak minutes ago; now, defused and guttering.
Director Piggot, a grimacing caricature of herself, had since left the room to put stops on various measures, and starts on various others. The Directors of nearby branches then present through conference calls had hung up to do the same.
Staff reactions of the Brockton branch varied. Most junior personnel watched the ongoing conversation, still streaming to a screen at the front of the room.
Senior staff tended to act as a substance dispersed though solution; seeking out an even saturation. Not this time. Excepting Armsmaster, who'd hurried to his lab to better understand the data collected by Dragon's probe, everyone else lingered in their chairs, watching with a vacant attentiveness usually associated with the cinema. The dominant expression was that of concern and disbelief. Then Dragon started reading aloud from selected passages of Tom Sawyer.
"God that makes me feel old," said the dragon with a voice like a taut bridge cable. "I'm not even old. Am I allowed to hanker for simpler times, do you think? You know, minus the endemic racism."
"I'm not sure what the cutoff is. You're fifteen?"
"Fifteen. You count my rings or something?"
"I have access to public records."
"You're saying I don't have rings?"
Clockblocker stood and left the room.
"So this is real, right?" asked Assault, no longer able to stop himself. He pointed at the screen meaningfully. “It’s not a puppet, or something?”
Miss Militia fielded the answer. "If it is it's a very good one."
"I saw it flying," said Velocity.
"She," said Militia.
"I saw her flying. I think half the city saw her flying. That'd be one hell of a spoof."
Assault said, "So now we pretend that everything's fine because she's in a good mood? Is that...?"
Battery piped up from the folding chair beside him. "Easy there, champ. It's no different than-"
"Were you going to say Lung?"
"I was going to say Lung."
“Low-hanging fruit, I like it."
"Oh shut up."
"That's why they're there."
"You know you don't have to read it to me," said the dragon. "Just text to speech would be fine. I'm sure you have better things to do."
"I wouldn't say 'better,'" said Dragon. "Just things that I should be doing. But I'm enjoying not doing them."
The dragon laughed. It was terrifying. "Hey, me too."
Assault stood and then Battery followed; like their namesakes this was the usual case. "We're going,” he announced. “Get some food. Looking forward to some top-notch shenanigans, though. I've got a good feeling about this."
"Take out?" asked Miss Militia.
"Yeah, could be. You want something?"
"Something for Colin. I know how he works. He's going to forget to eat."
"So you're going to sprinkle him with chowmein?"
Battery chuffed. "Like he's a goldfish."
"He's not a goldfish."
"Yeah puppy, he's not a goldfish."
"Just get something, would you?"
"No prob. Let's go, pup."
"You'd better stop calling me that."
Brockton Bay ENE's resident power couple left the room, bickering.
"Have you told him yet?" asked Taylor the dragon.
"Daniel, right? No, not yet. I could call him for you now. Put him on?"
"Maybe later?"
"Okay. Just let me know."
“Well, could you let him know I’m okay, though? I’m sure he’s worried. He’s probably worried.”
“I can do that.”
From here the atmosphere changed; the conversation was mundane and personal, and their own participation in it leaned further towards voyeurism. Dragon cut the stream moments later.
Their conversation about Tom Sawyer and how old it made Taylor feel had ended two hours ago, on a positive note. Now she listened to an automated text-to-voice program, snickering occasionally as it enunciated or paced itself strangely. Now and then she would remember that the reader was an automaton and could not appreciate the humor of its mistakes, and would instead listen in earnest, eager for any distraction from the latening of the day.
Sunset neared presently. She didn't remember it being quite so dark. But then she'd always seen it from further west, and never with the whole of the city in the way. She would be in her room now. Likely at her desk, at her computer. Or on her bed, reading a book that wasn't for school, as books for school carried a feeling of unease, now. Or, possibly but unlikely, she might be downstairs; her dad making a rare appearance at the stove for their bi-monthly dinner.
Now the light was blue-grey with the coming dark. Taylor's eyes saw well enough, still. She knew the probe by the faint whirr of machinery and its smattering of blinking lights - and also the synthesized voice of an old man reading to her. She felt unsettled and uneasy; she had never been out so late and so far from home all on her own. The shipping containers made for a bad security blanket; such a flimsy wall she had to take care not to knock them.
Believing that it might help with the atmosphere, Taylor nudged one crate forward and shaped it into a manageable ball with her hands, then placed her mouth near it and went:
"Bluuh."
She blew on it.
"Fffff..."
"Pffffuuh."
If only she'd come with an instruction manual.
"Fire."
…
"Fire."
Out came the tongue.
"Fl -- fluuuuuh.”
“Bluuuuh”
Feeling very foolish, and undoubtedly looking it, Taylor nudged the kindling away and placed her head on the ground; inconsolable. A sigh issued from the nostrils at the end of her muzzle – but it lacked the decency to smoke. The probe chose that moment to stop narrating. Taylor turned her eyes to it; wondering if the pout showed through her unfamiliar face.
Dragon's voice broke the silence and Taylor's stomach untied.
"Taylor?"
"Yes?"
"Your PC just left construction and should arrive within ten minutes."
"My PC?"
"I think you'll like it."
It arrived shortly, from the city. A quad-copter with grabbers dropped the payload down near Dragon's probe. It was a metal box about the size of a styrofoam cooler. Though, to Taylor it seemed as big as an individual cube of ice taken from said cooler. She reached for it; saw her hand beside it; pulled the hand back and asked, "Can I...?"
"It should be sturdy enough for regular wear and tear. But maybe don't step on it, just in case?"
Taylor carefully pinched the box between her claws. "What do I do with it?"
"Put it near that wall, over there."
Taylor took it to the broad side of a nearby warehouse, resting it down as though it were the last precarious steeple of a card tower.
Two projectors bloomed to life from somewhere within the box. One painted the side of the warehouse with a familiar looking start screen. The other lit the ground with a keyboard, though it had more in common with a hopscotch court.
Dragon walked her through the interface, and soon Taylor was bumbling through a web page. Her fingers couldn't quite match the fine dexterity of a human hand, so she typed one careful letter at a time.
"This is a little silly, isn’t it,” said Taylor.
“Only slightly.”
Taylor pressed a claw to the enter key. A familiar webpage loaded up - discolored by the tint of the wall but still recognizable. The shipyard felt a little more like home. “Thank you, Dragon.”
"You're welcome, dragon."
Taylor gave a shortish laugh. For the next hour she did the things she'd always done at home; her nighttime rituals only slightly hampered by her typing speed, and the mild sense of unease that came with doing personal things in the open.
Dusk turned to dark, and the projectors seemed all the brighter. Taylor had already finished her usual checklist of media and forums, and now returned to the main screen. She saw a folder labeled books and opened it, finding a veritable library of titles and genres. Her eyes were still glazed with the mindlessness of routine, however, and she flicked over the titles, none catching her eye. She felt the lateness of the hour. She smelled the chill in the air. Finally she turned away from the screen and found that a cold, dark night had somehow snuck up on her, and at once she felt a yearning for her bed.
The pc shut off. Taylor returned to her walls of crates. Dragon's probe waited there; no lights blinking. Taylor nudged it gently, and asked with a quiet voice, "Dragon? Are you there?"
A moment passed without response; the shipyard seemed terribly empty for it. Then a light blinked on; servos whirring. "Hello? Taylor? Did you need something?"
"Could you... put a book on, please?"
"Oh. Sure, did you have something in mind?"
"Pick something for me?"
"Done. Just give me a shake if you need anything, alright?"
Playback started moments later. Taylor thought to thank her, but decided against it. Dragon was already gone, she thought, and she had no business calling her back just for pleasantries.
Taylor eased into her nest and put her head on the ground. The bay hissed. The water glistened in the moonlight. Dragon's probe read another book from an old reading list.
Taylor never quite slept. She closed her eyes and didn't move; carefully imitating the symptoms of sleep, but they were false and she was restless, and every instant she wasn't unconscious she resented her own weary mind just that little more -- that it couldn't take its own advice and turn off.
Then the sun rose up from the bay, stabbing with a vindictive cruelty into her weary eyes. Sure, her lids blocked it, even the peach-glow that usually bled through, but she had no ear-lids, and couldn’t mistake the sound of a woken world for anything. As if to mock her, a passing seagull lit on the end of her nose. It flapped and bickered to itself, relieved at having found a suitable rock to pick its feathers and lament its standing in the world.
Taylor flicked her head. The seagull remained and eyed her crossly, how dare she move her head- "SQUAA!"
Taylor huffed through her nostrils. The force of it was like a geyser from Yellowstone. The displacement of air shook the foul sea-rat. It flapped stupidly; lost its footing; squawked; rolled down the side of her muzzle; caught its wits mid-fall; deployed wings; finally it landed clumsily on the ground. Her good-natured heart worried at the height of the fall, the end of which she couldn't see, and she lifted her head to check its condition.
The bird took stock of its feathers, ruffled up its plumage, seemed to make a snide remark at her expense, then leaped up into the Bayward breeze.
“Fire. Fire.”
Dragon’s probe whirred to life. "Good morning, Taylor."
Taylor made a dissatisfied grumble - the sound of why has the sun come up I was only just about to sleep. "Good morning."
"How did you sleep?"
"About as well as you'd expect, I think."
“Amazingly?”
“Oh yeah, totally.”
"So what's on the docket for the day?"
"What day is it?"
"Thursday."
A school day. A weekday. One day after Wednesday. Not quite Friday, but an approximate. Nearly the weekend, if she squinted and fuzzed her eyes. Thursdays were hard days for Taylor, because she could smell the Friday that came after, knowing by the tightness in her gut that she was not done quite yet.
None of this was true anymore, Taylor shortly realized, and worked to clear those thoughts from her mind. Finally she answered, "I don't know."
"Well, the sky's the limit."
"Oh I know. I was there yesterday. It was nice. Very quiet."
Dragon made a considering sound. "I’d have thought you’d love it. Everyone wants to fly."
"I did love it. Well, I liked it."
That considering sound again. "You actually have to work for it. I suppose it’s not quite the same."
Taylor thought on it, and felt that part of the joy of flight was being able to look down and see the earth passing beneath you; having been trapped there once and knowing the true value of the shortcuts you take; every second saved a gift, and every passing rooftop a new destination. And more than that, was seeing those poor earth-stuck fools, the size of ants and just as meaningful, knowing in your heart that they looked in bitter envy at your passing.
But she had no more errands on timers, she had no seconds to save, she would collapse those rooftops, and those people would probably run away screaming. Taylor couldn’t quite articulate it as such in so short a time, and so answered instead: "I guess not."
Dragon lapsed into silence; her inoffensive early-morning dialogue tree now exhausted. Taylor left her and went to the distant edge of the shipyard; her body no less nimble for the lack of sleep. There she spread her wings. They caught the breeze like sails. Dragon called to her, but she didn't respond, instead stepping out over water and lifting away.
Taylor flew along the coast. Brockton's came in previous few varieties: mostly sloping dirt cliffs, dripping down onto thin strips of mud, the real variety coming from how badly the rocks would cut you if you stepped on them. Rare and coveted were the wide stretches of plain sand. Such places were high in demand; crowded through the day in good weather, and then all through the night by homeless and addicts. Neither of those groups were quite her scene.
Taylor found one such strip very far north. It was vacant. The sand was wide and clean. A modern-looking house overlooked it. The owners probably wouldn't mind if she crashed their private beach. Or, at least Taylor wouldn't mind.
Her feet dug into the sand at her landing. She ground them deeper, digging little holes and then filling them in.
Now she walked where water spread thin, then waded deeper, until the waves lapped at her wrists. There she sat and was content for a moment. She raised a hand and splashed the water.
That was a good splash, she thought , and so splashed again.
Splash.
Splash.
Now she recruited her tail, slapping it down.
Slap.
Slap.
She drew a patterns with the flared tip; darting cursive with a pen as fast and broad as a speedboat.
Now the novelty left and the water could no longer hold her interest. She returned to the sand, settling down into a resting curl.
This isn't so bad, she thought. The sun warmed her scales, and the slow rhythm of the tide soothed the yearning in her heart. She paced herself to it. When her thoughts turned sour she focused on the sound, and the sound drove them out. Her breath evened. Her eyes closed. No, this isn't bad at all.
Taylor basked the day away and was woken by night instead. She entertained the notion of staying; her head was the bleary tired that only grew bolder the longer she indulged it. But Dragon might get in trouble, and so she flew to the shipyard to pass her night, Brockton's dappled city lights guiding her home.
Dragon's probe was inactive when Taylor set down. Taylor thought to nudge it and wish her goodnight, but decided against it. She went to her nest and curled up therein. This isn't bad, she thought again. Not bad at all.
Some non-spoiler information:
This isn't quite the same as the snip. If you're looking for more of the snip you'll maybe be a little disappointed.
Currently this is just slice of life, more episodic than plot driven (so, more like Glassmaker than Burn Up, if you've read them) It could have gone very differently. I'll post that outline a little later for anyone curious.
The /Dragon's Dogma 'cross' comes from - well, google ' Grigori dragon's dogma ' there you go. That's all though, and don't expect all of his tricks if you've played the game.
At the moment I think this will be about the same length as my other things, maybe slightly longer. The outline isn't quite complete, but I'd like to start posting anyways. That's all I'll say about that, because it seems like the easiest way to make sure I don't do something is to say that I'll do it.
TLDR: no proper 'fights' planned, slice of life, ~30k, Taylor dealing with herself and coming to terms with her situation, pretty silly in places, ideally not too silly.
This isn't quite the same as the snip. If you're looking for more of the snip you'll maybe be a little disappointed.
Currently this is just slice of life, more episodic than plot driven (so, more like Glassmaker than Burn Up, if you've read them) It could have gone very differently. I'll post that outline a little later for anyone curious.
The /Dragon's Dogma 'cross' comes from - well, google ' Grigori dragon's dogma ' there you go. That's all though, and don't expect all of his tricks if you've played the game.
At the moment I think this will be about the same length as my other things, maybe slightly longer. The outline isn't quite complete, but I'd like to start posting anyways. That's all I'll say about that, because it seems like the easiest way to make sure I don't do something is to say that I'll do it.
TLDR: no proper 'fights' planned, slice of life, ~30k, Taylor dealing with herself and coming to terms with her situation, pretty silly in places, ideally not too silly.
(1)
The footage still hadn't been released to the public yet. Dennis didn't let that stop him.
"Stop right there."
He pointed at the screen. On the screen was footage from a security camera, it showed the side of a school. Dennis didn't know the school very well, but had heard only bad things, and so was not particularly invested in its wellbeing. There was nothing interesting or unique about this particular frame of footage.
"Forward a bit?"
Chris scrolled through a few seconds; resigned. The screen flickered. Nothing changed.
"Little more?"
More scrolling.
At first glance it was difficult to understand exactly what was happening; it looked as though it were a frame from different footage; such as a volcanic eruption. But upon closer examination Dennis could pick it apart and identify the pieces.
That was the wall. The pieces are airborne, riding along the shell of a shockwave.
That was the ceiling, maybe?
That was probably the floor of the second story.
Lockers...
Dennis shouldered Chris off the mouse, frustrated by his taunting obliviousness, and went through the footage himself. There! It seemed to appear between one frame and the next.
That’s a tail. It's as thick around as the giant Oak at the park, and just as long.
That's a wing. It could throw shade over an Olympic size swimming pool.
The shoulders terminate at twice the height of the school, as broad as a classroom; anything above them was out of view of the camera; the school wasn't exactly worried about sky crimes, so he couldn’t begrudge them.
"See, right there." Dennis pointed at the screen, cycling back and forth between frames: dragon; no dragon; dragon; no dragon. "Did you catch that? I don't know if you caught that. It's really subtle, but if you pay close attention..." His finger went to the dragon - then down, narrowing on the bottom corner of the screen. "Enhance..." He zoomed in there. "Enhance..."
"Dude-"
"Shh... Sh... Look." He played a small section of the footage back and forth, the window zoomed in to focus on a pixely shape in the bottom corner. "There's a pigeon right there." Plunk, went his finger against the glass. Indeed it was a pigeon. The shape was clear enough; folded wings, little stubby feet, a hint of a white band marking the crest around the neck. "He doesn't even care. Look."
back - forth - back - forth; the bird-shape unruffled by the chaos unfolding around it.
"He's not moving," said Dennis. "Look, he's just eating some bread or something! This is the real story! This is the story the news outlets don't want you to hear! Our birds are evolving to become fearless!"
. . . . .
Danny stood by the card-reader, fiddling with his wallet as he small-talked the cashier.
A jug of milk passed over the checkstand scanner. It went, beep.
The chocolate chips... beep...
The whipping cream.
Taylor's eyes lingered on two candy bars they'd snuck onto the belt; watching them inch to the cashier at the end, enraptured and paralyzed with anticipation: would they would be noticed?
Emma was there, too. Her cohort in crime. She had her wiles about her still. Instead of vibrating suspiciously she took a magazine off the rack and flicked through; the very picture of disinterest. While inside - how her heart must have been racing.
Taylor held her breath as candy reached the cashier. The cashier rang them up. They joined the bags. Taylor watched the transaction; elated and biting her lip. Her dad hadn't noticed. She turned and made brief eye contact with Emma-
It wasn't about the candy. Her mother's chocolate pancakes waited for them at home. It was about victory. It was about how very sneaky and subtle they were. This would be a secret between the two of them; the time that they'd pulled wool over her old man’s eyes. All this passed between them in that moment, no words needed.
Taylor couldn't remember how old she was, just that it was an age where she was forever the height of things; able to rest her chin on the kitchen counter if she stood on her toes. She remembered how happy she was, in that moment. This swelling sensation in her chest, the urge laugh, how she couldn't wait to get to the parking lot and load into her dad's truck; buckle into the back and drive home with the wind in her hair. Her heart ached. She wondered when things went wrong.
Taylor said as much aloud, but there was no reply. There was only her to give one.
The shipyard was a place of wide swathes of pocked concrete, punctuated by stacks of shipping crates, rusted out cranes and decrepit construction vehicles; home to strays, vagrants, and other, more nefarious things. She had heard as much at least; knowing that there were parts of the city a young girl should take care to avoid.
Thus went the reputation at least, but she'd seen no activity of any variety since landing. Not even stray dogs. She had a sneaking suspicion as to why. There was an old mattress near her, propped against a wall. It seemed to her like a graham cracker laid against a dollhouse.
Part of Taylor felt that she should panic. This was the same part of her that still wondered if she was awake. But dreams rarely felt so real once she'd thought to question them. Then the critical part of her mind would wake up and she would notice the unreality; the fakeness of things. That hadn't happened yet.
The remaining parts of her didn't care if it was real; if she was awake or asleep, or still trapped in that box, crying and delirious, or maybe freed now, laid up in some hospital bed with her father worrying over her. The thought passed through her once, then dropped; considered and forgotten.
Taylor smelled the ocean. She felt sunlight on her back and on her wings. When she raised her head she saw blue sky spreading above her; not a flat plane but some vast spherical surface, wrapping about her head as though she were within a dome. Its view was unobstructed. Her head would rise above the nearby warehouse even with her body on the ground. For the first time in what seemed forever Taylor felt that the world was not so large or frightening, and were it a dream, then it was a pleasant one, and she should take her time waking from it.
That being the case, she thought, what do you do when you dream?
Taylor stewed on it, as unfortunately no one else could for her, at the moment. She answered: you fly, of course.
She spread her wings. A storm of gravel and sliding shipping crates bore her up. With two flaps the shipyard was beneath her, and now shrunk smaller and smaller. She rose in the winding circle of a passenger jet; wider across at the tips of her wings, and far longer from her head to the tip of her tail.
She saw birds as she flew. They didn't shy from her. If she slowed to glide when they were near they would drift behind, taking cover in her slipstream. She saw that their wings moved when they flew; careful twitches of feathers and muscles, accounting for the slightest change in air currents. Taylor's didn't. She didn't feel like a creature of delicate movement, like a bird, with hollow bones and downy feathers. She felt like momentum. Like a ram with its head low.
Taylor flew higher. When she looked down she saw rectangular plots of the countryside up north, all different colors and sizes, piecemealed together. She saw the crosshatched lines of the suburbs down south; peppered throughout them were green trees, parks and fields. She saw the roads. They sectioned the city off into rectangles and trapezoids, overlapping and crossing as they wove together, but ran loose and serpentine as they left to wind up countryside, purple and foggy with distance.
Taylor flew higher still. She reached above the clouds now. The sky was mostly clear this day, and the few clouds there looked like formless mist, dye spreading in water. Civilization spread below her. Its edges barely seemed to curve, instead it was as though she flew over a vast, flat plane, extending beyond what her eye could distinguish in every direction.
Here Taylor knew she was awake. Dreams didn't stomach exploration for long. Books would have empty pages. Mirrors would show distorted reflections. The more she explored the fantastic landscape, the more her critical mind would wake, and eventually she would know the weight of her limbs against her mattress, and the dream would slip between her fingers no matter how hard she tried to hold it. This was real.
The air was clean, cold, and whistling faintly in her ears. All else was quiet. Her eyes were front facing, but she couldn't quite see down over the length of her muzzle, so when she pointed directly ahead she lost all sense of scale or direction, and it was is if she were floating in an expanse of deep blue. She felt as though she could keep going, rise up into the cold void of space and fly among the stars. But it was only a passing fancy, and not a very good one.
Here Taylor looked down after a long period of looking only straight, and found she could no longer see Brockton below her. She turned and saw it had drifted behind; recognizable now only by the bay.
She circled gently about and went back. She didn't need to flap; high enough to glide down on lazy wings, feeling very much like a plane coming in for landing. Brockton had always been her home, through good and bad. Her heart felt strange for having traveled so far from it; light and flitting, on the cusp of being unpleasant.
Taylor landed in the shipyard once again. It hadn’t changed in her absence.
"Well, then. Um…."
The day was young, only half-gone at most. Taylor looked around and felt the weight of the hours she had left. So much time in a day.
She set to moving some shipping crates. They had been big, once. Eight-by-eight-by-twenty feet long; roomy enough to walk with wide arms and jump without bumping her head. Now five of them stacked would reach her shoulder while she stood on all fours.
She took the many crates cluttered around the shipyard and made a house. It wasn't a very good house. The walls rose only three crates high, as any more became untrustworthy and difficult to manage. There were only three walls, and the walls weren't very long. There was no roof. Really it was a horseshoe, not a house.
Moving the crates was an effort. Taylor couldn't pick them up and walk about on her hind legs, she'd look silly. Instead there was much dragging and three-legged clomping and finally construction with motions like taking a pie out of the oven – not because they were heavy, but because they felt so airy and fragile. Taylor discovered that she had horns - when a crate got stuck on them.
Half an hour of unearthly screeching, rending metal later and her home was done. Taylor paced about it, inspecting it. She might have felt pride, if she wasn't taller than it. She could barely fit in, even curled up. Her eyes narrowed - could she actually fit in it, she wondered.
She now made to test this theory, carefully entering headfirst and walking a circle; lying down; getting her arms and legs folded comfortably. Her head and tail poked out beyond its confines, and it was only barely tall enough to shield her from sight, even with her flat on the ground, but it felt nice to have something at her back, and to have accomplished a minor victory.
Now Taylor turned to the sun and saw how little it had fallen, and her head fell; weary. So much time in a day when she lacked the means to spend it. One long, sharp nail plucked at the concrete as she thought on the things she could do.
Here her mind went to the usual suspects, shooting them down as quickly as she provided them. As her mood fell, she noticed something approaching from the bay. It was a little quad-copter; four rotors spread around a center pillar about the size of a refrigerator – though now seeming about as big as a soda can. It was quiet for its size, but still loud enough for her to hear coming from far away.
It buzzed closer at a relaxed clip, then eased down into a landing position. Taylor didn't move for fear of scaring off this new distraction; with blinky lights and spinny things.
"... lo," went the machine, faint and tinny.
Taylor inched her head forward to better hear, her features narrowed with uncertainty.
"Hello!" went the machine. It had a woman's voice; pleasant to the ear and faintly accented.
Taylor moved closer still, itching to find where exactly on the device the sound was coming from, as she'd always had a soft spot for blinky little gizmos, but found that she'd already reached the end of her neck, and there was no more slack to give. "Hello."
A pause.
The machine said, "It's nice to meet you. My name is Dragon. Do you have a name?"
Here Taylor recognized the situation for what it was. "Yes, my name is Grognak. The Destroyer."
"Grognak?"
"Yes, Grognak."
Then Dragon said with no hint of mockery: "It's an honor to meet you, Grognak the Destroyer."
Taylor felt cringing regret take root in her heart. "My name is Taylor. And you don't have to do that."
"Well it's an honor to meet you, Taylor."
"You d... If you say so."
"How are you feeling?"
Taylor sighed, going over the real answers in her head and ruling them out one by one, as they seemed very petty to bring up in present company. Finally she answered, only half-joking, "Big?"
"Are you hungry? I can get you-"
"I'm not hungry."
"Okay. I'm glad to hear that. In the meantime, is there anything that you need? Anything I can do for you?"
A pause.
Taylor asked, "How's the school?"
Now Dragon paused at the deflection. "The eastern wing was heavily damaged. As was the surrounding area."
"Damaged, huh?"
The machine didn't comment.
"Was anyone hurt?"
"There are no known fatalities at this time, and everyone is expected to make a full recovery."
"So that's a yes, then." Taylor thought back to her last moments on campus. Though muted now with time and distance, she still felt something heavy knotting in her stomach. "Good."
The machine didn't reply.
"Oh, don't worry. I don’t really mean that. I don’t want anyone dead. Just maybe… roughed up for once. They weren't very good people. And I'm sure the wrong ones took the brunt of it. That's how it usually goes. I won't apologize, but I could pretend to have worried about them, if you want."
Another pause. Then Dragon said with a voice so level it could have been modulated, "You have reason to be angry. I won't ask you to apologize. Is there anything we can do for you?"
Here Taylor started thinking, and the thinking turned to ruminating, which she found was just the same as thinking only in a very sour direction.
"Taylor?"
"Are you worried about me?"
The machine didn't answer.
"You're talking to me through an empty probe. And so nicely. Are you afraid of me? I'd understand. It would make sense. I wondered what everyone else was doing back in the city. It's gone a little quiet."
"We're not afraid of you."
Taylor imagined that wasn't a line typically used to reassure someone, and wondered who it was for. "We, again? Who else is there?"
Dragon didn't tell her.
"It's fine. I'm not offended." Taylor brushed out of the stacks of shipping containers, going to the machine. It seemed smaller the closer she got, and now, standing over it, it resembled little more than a soda can lined with paper umbrellas. "Are you still there?"
"I'm here, Taylor."
"Are you all listening?"
"They can hear."
"Okay. Please listen carefully. I'm only saying this once, but you can record it if you want, so every time someone worries about it you can just load it up and show it to them." Taylor bowed her head so that the many hidden cameras, no doubt focused on her, could properly see the sincerity in her eyes. "My name is Taylor Hebert, and I don't want to hurt anybody. Did you get that?"
The reply came moments later, noticeably less earnest. "Yes. I got it."
Taylor felt like a bully. She fell back on her haunches, giving the probe room to breathe. "Okay. Good, I meant it."
"Taylor?"
"Yes?"
"Really, can I get you anything?"
Taylor measured if it would be more polite to accept or decline now. Then she remembered her lack of outlets and the decision tilted heavily in one direction. "I'd like a book to read. If you wouldn't mind."
"A particular book?"
Taylor felt the number of the hours she had left in the day. "A very large one."
"Okay. We'll figure something out."
"Thank you." Taylor turned to her crates, but then Dragon said:
"In the meantime, I can have this read for you, if you'd like?"
"I... Would like that."
Taylor curled back into her fort and got comfortable, because it didn't feel quite right to be read to while standing in the open. She bumped a wall and toppled it noisily, but the pressure was strangely comforting, like the weight of a blanket, so she pretended not to notice. The probe whirred to life and drifted closer, settling very near. "Did you have something specific in mind?"
"I hadn't thought that far ahead. Would you pick something for me?"
. . . . .
"...Are you just going down my eighth grade summer reading list?"
"They're called classics for a reason. And I'm willing to bet you don't remember Tom Sawyer nearly as well as you think you do."
"I don't take that bet only because I don't know what I'd do with your money."
Dragon and Taylor, the dragon, were getting along now, going by their conversation. Dragon spoke easier. Taylor felt comfortable enough to joke. The tensions of the hastily assembled conference had already reached their peak minutes ago; now, defused and guttering.
Director Piggot, a grimacing caricature of herself, had since left the room to put stops on various measures, and starts on various others. The Directors of nearby branches then present through conference calls had hung up to do the same.
Staff reactions of the Brockton branch varied. Most junior personnel watched the ongoing conversation, still streaming to a screen at the front of the room.
Senior staff tended to act as a substance dispersed though solution; seeking out an even saturation. Not this time. Excepting Armsmaster, who'd hurried to his lab to better understand the data collected by Dragon's probe, everyone else lingered in their chairs, watching with a vacant attentiveness usually associated with the cinema. The dominant expression was that of concern and disbelief. Then Dragon started reading aloud from selected passages of Tom Sawyer.
"God that makes me feel old," said the dragon with a voice like a taut bridge cable. "I'm not even old. Am I allowed to hanker for simpler times, do you think? You know, minus the endemic racism."
"I'm not sure what the cutoff is. You're fifteen?"
"Fifteen. You count my rings or something?"
"I have access to public records."
"You're saying I don't have rings?"
Clockblocker stood and left the room.
"So this is real, right?" asked Assault, no longer able to stop himself. He pointed at the screen meaningfully. “It’s not a puppet, or something?”
Miss Militia fielded the answer. "If it is it's a very good one."
"I saw it flying," said Velocity.
"She," said Militia.
"I saw her flying. I think half the city saw her flying. That'd be one hell of a spoof."
Assault said, "So now we pretend that everything's fine because she's in a good mood? Is that...?"
Battery piped up from the folding chair beside him. "Easy there, champ. It's no different than-"
"Were you going to say Lung?"
"I was going to say Lung."
“Low-hanging fruit, I like it."
"Oh shut up."
"That's why they're there."
"You know you don't have to read it to me," said the dragon. "Just text to speech would be fine. I'm sure you have better things to do."
"I wouldn't say 'better,'" said Dragon. "Just things that I should be doing. But I'm enjoying not doing them."
The dragon laughed. It was terrifying. "Hey, me too."
Assault stood and then Battery followed; like their namesakes this was the usual case. "We're going,” he announced. “Get some food. Looking forward to some top-notch shenanigans, though. I've got a good feeling about this."
"Take out?" asked Miss Militia.
"Yeah, could be. You want something?"
"Something for Colin. I know how he works. He's going to forget to eat."
"So you're going to sprinkle him with chowmein?"
Battery chuffed. "Like he's a goldfish."
"He's not a goldfish."
"Yeah puppy, he's not a goldfish."
"Just get something, would you?"
"No prob. Let's go, pup."
"You'd better stop calling me that."
Brockton Bay ENE's resident power couple left the room, bickering.
"Have you told him yet?" asked Taylor the dragon.
"Daniel, right? No, not yet. I could call him for you now. Put him on?"
"Maybe later?"
"Okay. Just let me know."
“Well, could you let him know I’m okay, though? I’m sure he’s worried. He’s probably worried.”
“I can do that.”
From here the atmosphere changed; the conversation was mundane and personal, and their own participation in it leaned further towards voyeurism. Dragon cut the stream moments later.
. . . . .
Their conversation about Tom Sawyer and how old it made Taylor feel had ended two hours ago, on a positive note. Now she listened to an automated text-to-voice program, snickering occasionally as it enunciated or paced itself strangely. Now and then she would remember that the reader was an automaton and could not appreciate the humor of its mistakes, and would instead listen in earnest, eager for any distraction from the latening of the day.
Sunset neared presently. She didn't remember it being quite so dark. But then she'd always seen it from further west, and never with the whole of the city in the way. She would be in her room now. Likely at her desk, at her computer. Or on her bed, reading a book that wasn't for school, as books for school carried a feeling of unease, now. Or, possibly but unlikely, she might be downstairs; her dad making a rare appearance at the stove for their bi-monthly dinner.
Now the light was blue-grey with the coming dark. Taylor's eyes saw well enough, still. She knew the probe by the faint whirr of machinery and its smattering of blinking lights - and also the synthesized voice of an old man reading to her. She felt unsettled and uneasy; she had never been out so late and so far from home all on her own. The shipping containers made for a bad security blanket; such a flimsy wall she had to take care not to knock them.
Believing that it might help with the atmosphere, Taylor nudged one crate forward and shaped it into a manageable ball with her hands, then placed her mouth near it and went:
"Bluuh."
She blew on it.
"Fffff..."
"Pffffuuh."
If only she'd come with an instruction manual.
"Fire."
…
"Fire."
Out came the tongue.
"Fl -- fluuuuuh.”
“Bluuuuh”
Feeling very foolish, and undoubtedly looking it, Taylor nudged the kindling away and placed her head on the ground; inconsolable. A sigh issued from the nostrils at the end of her muzzle – but it lacked the decency to smoke. The probe chose that moment to stop narrating. Taylor turned her eyes to it; wondering if the pout showed through her unfamiliar face.
Dragon's voice broke the silence and Taylor's stomach untied.
"Taylor?"
"Yes?"
"Your PC just left construction and should arrive within ten minutes."
"My PC?"
"I think you'll like it."
It arrived shortly, from the city. A quad-copter with grabbers dropped the payload down near Dragon's probe. It was a metal box about the size of a styrofoam cooler. Though, to Taylor it seemed as big as an individual cube of ice taken from said cooler. She reached for it; saw her hand beside it; pulled the hand back and asked, "Can I...?"
"It should be sturdy enough for regular wear and tear. But maybe don't step on it, just in case?"
Taylor carefully pinched the box between her claws. "What do I do with it?"
"Put it near that wall, over there."
Taylor took it to the broad side of a nearby warehouse, resting it down as though it were the last precarious steeple of a card tower.
Two projectors bloomed to life from somewhere within the box. One painted the side of the warehouse with a familiar looking start screen. The other lit the ground with a keyboard, though it had more in common with a hopscotch court.
Dragon walked her through the interface, and soon Taylor was bumbling through a web page. Her fingers couldn't quite match the fine dexterity of a human hand, so she typed one careful letter at a time.
"This is a little silly, isn’t it,” said Taylor.
“Only slightly.”
Taylor pressed a claw to the enter key. A familiar webpage loaded up - discolored by the tint of the wall but still recognizable. The shipyard felt a little more like home. “Thank you, Dragon.”
"You're welcome, dragon."
Taylor gave a shortish laugh. For the next hour she did the things she'd always done at home; her nighttime rituals only slightly hampered by her typing speed, and the mild sense of unease that came with doing personal things in the open.
Dusk turned to dark, and the projectors seemed all the brighter. Taylor had already finished her usual checklist of media and forums, and now returned to the main screen. She saw a folder labeled books and opened it, finding a veritable library of titles and genres. Her eyes were still glazed with the mindlessness of routine, however, and she flicked over the titles, none catching her eye. She felt the lateness of the hour. She smelled the chill in the air. Finally she turned away from the screen and found that a cold, dark night had somehow snuck up on her, and at once she felt a yearning for her bed.
The pc shut off. Taylor returned to her walls of crates. Dragon's probe waited there; no lights blinking. Taylor nudged it gently, and asked with a quiet voice, "Dragon? Are you there?"
A moment passed without response; the shipyard seemed terribly empty for it. Then a light blinked on; servos whirring. "Hello? Taylor? Did you need something?"
"Could you... put a book on, please?"
"Oh. Sure, did you have something in mind?"
"Pick something for me?"
"Done. Just give me a shake if you need anything, alright?"
Playback started moments later. Taylor thought to thank her, but decided against it. Dragon was already gone, she thought, and she had no business calling her back just for pleasantries.
Taylor eased into her nest and put her head on the ground. The bay hissed. The water glistened in the moonlight. Dragon's probe read another book from an old reading list.
. . . . .
Taylor never quite slept. She closed her eyes and didn't move; carefully imitating the symptoms of sleep, but they were false and she was restless, and every instant she wasn't unconscious she resented her own weary mind just that little more -- that it couldn't take its own advice and turn off.
Then the sun rose up from the bay, stabbing with a vindictive cruelty into her weary eyes. Sure, her lids blocked it, even the peach-glow that usually bled through, but she had no ear-lids, and couldn’t mistake the sound of a woken world for anything. As if to mock her, a passing seagull lit on the end of her nose. It flapped and bickered to itself, relieved at having found a suitable rock to pick its feathers and lament its standing in the world.
Taylor flicked her head. The seagull remained and eyed her crossly, how dare she move her head- "SQUAA!"
Taylor huffed through her nostrils. The force of it was like a geyser from Yellowstone. The displacement of air shook the foul sea-rat. It flapped stupidly; lost its footing; squawked; rolled down the side of her muzzle; caught its wits mid-fall; deployed wings; finally it landed clumsily on the ground. Her good-natured heart worried at the height of the fall, the end of which she couldn't see, and she lifted her head to check its condition.
The bird took stock of its feathers, ruffled up its plumage, seemed to make a snide remark at her expense, then leaped up into the Bayward breeze.
“Fire. Fire.”
Dragon’s probe whirred to life. "Good morning, Taylor."
Taylor made a dissatisfied grumble - the sound of why has the sun come up I was only just about to sleep. "Good morning."
"How did you sleep?"
"About as well as you'd expect, I think."
“Amazingly?”
“Oh yeah, totally.”
"So what's on the docket for the day?"
"What day is it?"
"Thursday."
A school day. A weekday. One day after Wednesday. Not quite Friday, but an approximate. Nearly the weekend, if she squinted and fuzzed her eyes. Thursdays were hard days for Taylor, because she could smell the Friday that came after, knowing by the tightness in her gut that she was not done quite yet.
None of this was true anymore, Taylor shortly realized, and worked to clear those thoughts from her mind. Finally she answered, "I don't know."
"Well, the sky's the limit."
"Oh I know. I was there yesterday. It was nice. Very quiet."
Dragon made a considering sound. "I’d have thought you’d love it. Everyone wants to fly."
"I did love it. Well, I liked it."
That considering sound again. "You actually have to work for it. I suppose it’s not quite the same."
Taylor thought on it, and felt that part of the joy of flight was being able to look down and see the earth passing beneath you; having been trapped there once and knowing the true value of the shortcuts you take; every second saved a gift, and every passing rooftop a new destination. And more than that, was seeing those poor earth-stuck fools, the size of ants and just as meaningful, knowing in your heart that they looked in bitter envy at your passing.
But she had no more errands on timers, she had no seconds to save, she would collapse those rooftops, and those people would probably run away screaming. Taylor couldn’t quite articulate it as such in so short a time, and so answered instead: "I guess not."
Dragon lapsed into silence; her inoffensive early-morning dialogue tree now exhausted. Taylor left her and went to the distant edge of the shipyard; her body no less nimble for the lack of sleep. There she spread her wings. They caught the breeze like sails. Dragon called to her, but she didn't respond, instead stepping out over water and lifting away.
Taylor flew along the coast. Brockton's came in previous few varieties: mostly sloping dirt cliffs, dripping down onto thin strips of mud, the real variety coming from how badly the rocks would cut you if you stepped on them. Rare and coveted were the wide stretches of plain sand. Such places were high in demand; crowded through the day in good weather, and then all through the night by homeless and addicts. Neither of those groups were quite her scene.
Taylor found one such strip very far north. It was vacant. The sand was wide and clean. A modern-looking house overlooked it. The owners probably wouldn't mind if she crashed their private beach. Or, at least Taylor wouldn't mind.
Her feet dug into the sand at her landing. She ground them deeper, digging little holes and then filling them in.
Now she walked where water spread thin, then waded deeper, until the waves lapped at her wrists. There she sat and was content for a moment. She raised a hand and splashed the water.
That was a good splash, she thought , and so splashed again.
Splash.
Splash.
Now she recruited her tail, slapping it down.
Slap.
Slap.
She drew a patterns with the flared tip; darting cursive with a pen as fast and broad as a speedboat.
Now the novelty left and the water could no longer hold her interest. She returned to the sand, settling down into a resting curl.
This isn't so bad, she thought. The sun warmed her scales, and the slow rhythm of the tide soothed the yearning in her heart. She paced herself to it. When her thoughts turned sour she focused on the sound, and the sound drove them out. Her breath evened. Her eyes closed. No, this isn't bad at all.
Taylor basked the day away and was woken by night instead. She entertained the notion of staying; her head was the bleary tired that only grew bolder the longer she indulged it. But Dragon might get in trouble, and so she flew to the shipyard to pass her night, Brockton's dappled city lights guiding her home.
Dragon's probe was inactive when Taylor set down. Taylor thought to nudge it and wish her goodnight, but decided against it. She went to her nest and curled up therein. This isn't bad, she thought again. Not bad at all.
. . . . .
so. again, hopefully not too silly.
I'm not happy with the PRT's conversation and Taylor's first with Dragon, if you see ways to improve them please say so. Yaknow, among other things.
see ya next time.
I'm not happy with the PRT's conversation and Taylor's first with Dragon, if you see ways to improve them please say so. Yaknow, among other things.
see ya next time.
