Meghanology – book 1 of girldragongizzard

After a couple of hours of talking, and mostly listening, to Rhoda and Chapman about dragon habits and needs, I promise to help look for a better place for me to live. Though my hope is that there aren’t any.

Dammit, even after my transformation I’m still fawning.

I think I need to talk to my counselor about having human grade C-PTSD as a dragon. I don’t think she’s qualified to assess that, but she can at least listen. Especially if I get another tablet, which, by the way, Kimberly says she might have for me.

She won’t be able to bring it to me until later tonight, or tomorrow morning, but that’s fine.

It’s her old one, though, and it has a shitty battery, which we’ll need to replace to make it actually useful for me. But Rhoda is the kind of person who knows who to go to for that, apparently.

It seems that Rhoda’s favorite thing to do is networking, and she networks with everyone.

It turns out that Chapman took the day off just to get that color booklet to me as soon as possible, and was able to because work was fortuitously so slow today. Hir boss almost suggested it before sie walked up and asked.

And now that we’ve had our meeting early, sie’s eager to go with Rhoda to the library. Any opportunity to research dragons further clearly excites the shit out of hir.

The two of them make quite the pair. Tall Rhoda with her purples and maroons, with long sleeves and stockings even in the summer heat, and a cane that’s basically too thick dowels nailed together with a miter joint, and short round Chapman’s ingenious mishmash of neon queer greaser roller derby 90’s ska punk perfection, walking side by side down the street. I feel like there’s some kind of power there. And if they were baubles, instead of people, they’d be the perfect start to a good hoard.

Watching them head toward the bus depot, I realize that what I’m about to do is very risky, all for the sake of something I don’t believe in.

I’d better do it right.

It’s about half past noon now, and the traffic has gotten heavier as people are on their lunch breaks. Which means I can’t really use any of the roads as a runway.

I step out from under the awning and look up at my building.

Time to climb it.

Oh, the police are going to love this if they see me doing it.

Whatever.

Using a stroke of my wings for assistance, I leap up to grab the edge of the awning, and then flapping them rapidly I work to pull myself up onto it. And I do much better than Whitman did in a similar situation. They must have been really stunned and scared.

There’s a fire escape around the corner of the building, and I could have just gone to that in the first place, actually. I do that now, to save myself a lot of effort. No need to scale a brick face where there are stairs. And those go up to the top floor!

At the top of those, I do a repeat of my hop and scrabble to get onto the roof.

It’s not the tallest building downtown, but it’s one of the few.

I’m going to head south, so jumping from the roof down over the street I usually use as a runway makes the most sense. But I’ve got something else I have to do first.

Determined to make it known that this place is mine, I pace around the full edge of the building, repeatedly making my signature challenge call.

Let it be known that if you can hear my voice, you are in my air! And you’d better turn away and find somewhere else to be.

After about halfway around the circumference of the building, I start hearing other cries echoing back, each one very different from the others. And I can actually visualize where I think they’re coming from.

I get sort of a map in my head of where some of the other dragons are in the city. I don’t think I could draw it, but I can see the only hole I can fly through without offending anyone. Jesus, we’re densely packed. And it’s not even all fifty that are supposed to be here. Maybe twelve others have answered.

This isn’t going to be good if we can’t make peace with each other somehow.

Even though I know it’s unreasonable, my feeling is that if they all recognize my superiority, we’ll be fine.

With this thought firmly in mind, just for the determination of it, I complete my circuit, and then position myself for take-off.

I’ve gotta give one more revving Harley squawk and air-ratchet chatter before I take off, so I do. And then I fall, spread my wings, and pull up to shoot out down the street just above tree level. Then, flapping laconically and heading for the strongest of the thermals in my path, I rebuild my altitude before heading out over the bay.

And the more distance I put between myself and my lair, the more I feel like I’m personally at risk and in danger. If someone takes my home, they take my hoard, such as it is, and they take my people. And I really can’t have that. I’d have to start all over again, of course. But also, it’d be like if someone kidnapped my parents and burned down their house, but worse.

I tell myself that my declaration has given me at least a couple hours of reprieve from challengers. Everyone has to know I’m in a mood, and maybe word of what I did to Whitman has started to get around. Though, Whitman’s yawp was not among the responses. I wonder where they live, or where they went after our fight.

They had headed south, on foot.

Hmm.

The cave I’m looking for is at the northern end of a trail that follows along the ridge of the foothill closest to the bay, south of the city. It’s technically inside city limits, but there’s no real development there. It’s officially a park on the east side of the ridge, with a smattering of housing developments on the west, facing the water and the sunsets. I’ve delivered pizza to a few of those houses before, during the three months I worked for a pizza place.

I didn’t hear any dragons here, which is either amazing or they just didn’t give a shit. Maybe my voice didn’t make it this far.

I go as far south as I dare and look for the parking lot at the trailhead there, and then follow the trail up and along the ridge. It’s not always visible from the air, but I know where it goes. I hiked it with my parents a couple times before my chronic fatigue set in.

The rocky outcrop that’s used as a viewpoint by hikers is easy to see, and I know it’s right near the end of the trail, so I land on that.

I take a moment to stand there and look out over the southern neighborhoods of the city, toward the arboretum where I humiliated Whitman.

I suspect I’m already in another dragon’s territory, so I’m quiet and alert.

I don’t even huff, though I want to.

Then I start following the trail toward the old mine, the one I’ve been thinking about for the past day. As quietly as I can move. Which is really amazingly quiet. I think. I’m not sure my ears work as well as they used to. They’re kind of hidden behind my head armor.

Whitman had parabolic bat-like ears. If this is Whitman’s territory, I’m going to have to assume they know I’m coming.

This is so stupid.

It’s also more of a hike down than I remember. Almost halfway back down the side of the mountain. And it is just tall enough to be registered as a mountain. Though, I think part of the onerous nature of my skulking exploration is that I’m walking on all fours and being as cautious as possible every inch of the way. 

And with each step, I’m afraid I’m going to be ambushed with napalm. Or teeth the size of my own horns and jaws designed to crush small boulders. Well, maybe two watermelons at the same time.

The thing is, though, I do think that this isn’t really Whitman’s kind of terrain. I’m probably more at home here than they are. If I see them coming, I should be able to dodge around trees so much more easily than they can follow.

But that doesn’t assuage my fear at all. Because if I don’t see them coming, I’m probably dead.

But, eventually I see the big mound of dirt jutting out from the side of the mountain that marks the opening of the mine.

I stop and listen. Then I taste the air.

I taste it repeatedly and a lot, moving my head back and forth.

I could actually sort of do this before my transformation. My tongue was always way more sensitive than my nose, and plugging my nose never made it so I couldn’t taste anything. But it’s nicer and more effective to have a longer tongue that’s split and more flexible, with a sort of hole in the center of my lips for it to slip out. And it is way more sensitive than it was before.

I don’t taste anything that I’d identify as another dragon.

And, also, the mouth of that man made cave isn’t any warmer than its surroundings.

I think that means that if there’s a dragon there it’s not Whitman. But I can’t bring myself to be sure that it’s vacant.

Maybe I should make a strategic noise. A call of challenge for this one only. Quiet, but not too quiet.

I’d rather call them out, bristling and ready to fight, than to stick my head into a gout of napalm.

Or maybe I should just leave, because this was a bad idea.

Experimentally, I rumble. And I stand there and rumble for quite a while, and nothing happens.

Realizing that it’s not working, I then make a squawk about the volume I’d use to call to someone across a crowded pub.

It sounds a lot louder than I’m comfortable with.

But there’s no response.

I stay still a while longer, still tasting the air and using my ears. My hearing might not be as good as it was, but I’m not not using it! I’m also keeping an eye out for any movement.

When I’m certain that there’s no dragon here that’s going to make themself known, I approach the cave.

But at the mouth of it, I taste the air again. Or, rather, I don’t stop tasting it the whole way, but I pause there to wave my head back and forth some more.

If anything, the air tastes like forest duff and vaguely of human urine.

Gross.

There is no heat in the cave. Even an ectothermic dragon would likely be warmer than their surroundings. I think that once they got as cold as their surroundings, they’d need to warm them up somehow to not go into torpor, with how cool it is in there.

I’m just guessing. But it’s what I’m telling myself to get myself to go deeper in.

I move so slowly, one footstep at a time. Nothing.

Nobody.

As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I can tell clearly that the cave is completely empty. It doesn’t even go that far back. Maybe thirty feet, just as I remember.

I also remember my parents telling me not to go all the way back, because in an abandoned mine that’s maybe a hundred years old, that’s really dangerous. Even though the walls and ceiling are solid rock. And, of course, it’s a square shaft.

Still, now I’m curious if I could even make it a comfortable home. It’s pretty small, with no room for even what I call a hoard. But I could put something in here and if I can turn around alright, maybe it’ll do while I work to assert my dominance over a larger region.

I want to know how it feels, and I just… I just…

It might be nice to sleep in here. Like, right now.

A Tumblr post I reblogged just last week comes to mind, and I’m sufficiently alarmed. No, no, no. I’ve got to get out of here quickly.

I’ll die.

I start backing up, scrunching up as I go, getting my head out of the back of this mine as fast as I can, when I hear, or rather feel, a powerful thump behind me.

In a horrific panic, without even really thinking, I scramble up the wall and across the ceiling like I’m trying to leave the bathroom in my apartment after using the toilet. And, wings held tightly against my ribs, tail scraping along the lower corner of the wall until it whips out behind me, I land facing the entrance without having advanced any further that way.

A quick breath gives me more oxygen than before, which is good.

Because there, right in front of me, are all the teeth of Whitman, coming right at me.

Two steps back, and another quick intake of air, this time not into my lungs, and I just barely avoid having my head snapped off.

We’re nose to nose, and I don’t even know if they can see me around their snout.

Their mouth opens quickly again to make another attack.

And I exhale.

The result is not good for either of us.

There is fire everywhere.

And even though my nictitating membranes have successfully protected my eyes from burning and from being hurt by the glare of heat, and my scaly hide seems to shrug off my own napalm just fine, the fire is eating up the oxygen in the mine extremely fast.

I have to get out as fast as I can. But to do that I have to go through an enormous flaming Whitman.

And they’re thrashing about in terror and pain, slamming their head against the sides, ceiling, and floor of the mine shaft, and I know better than to get any closer to that.

I can’t stop myself from taking another step back, despite that way being certain death. But I also can’t stop myself from making a noise.

At first it’s my ultra bass rumble, low enough that pebbles on the floor of the mine dance. Whitman’s got to feel it.

But they’re too distracted by napalm in their gullet to care.

I can’t even really see what’s going on. My eyes are cloudy with natural protection, and fire and chaotic movement is creating an unintelligible blur of light and shadow. And I think I’m asphyxiating.

Needing as much oxygen and breath as I can get, I take a big breath of dangerous air, which might be a huge mistake, and start making the most humiliating sound I can think of. Humiliating for Whitman.

I fill the cave with a fire engine’s siren. No honks, no braps, just a constant, long warbling wail. And I start advancing, to make it get louder.

I want those ears to bleed.

Visually, I can’t tell if it’s working. My own snout is probably still aflame. But I do hear thumbs, scrapes, and yawps as Whitman continues to struggle and thrash.

They didn’t come very far into the cave, because I wasn’t all that far in there. They should be running out of walls to hit if they’re backing up. But I keep going, because I have no other choice. And I’ll know if I’ve misjudged when I get hit in the face with a hippo-dragon snout.

I lower my head, present my horns, and brace my neck to make a plunge, and then, convinced I’m committing suicide, I charge.

There’s a thump, a “Grawp”, and a big sliding sound as I move, but I don’t make impact.

Instead I come flying out of the mine through smoke and flames, and scrabble right over Whitman as they’re sliding down the far slope of the mine’s discarded rubble.

And I keep running. I’m not going to face that monster any longer than I have to.

I’m not on my own territory.

At some point I find a good place to take to the air, and I start heading home, out of breath and wobbling in the sky.

I notice when the fire on my snout goes out from the wind and exhaustion of fuel, because I can see again.

And I need to rest somewhere soon, but I’m headed straight for home over the territories of other dragons, and there’s nowhere safe between here and there.

The next morning falls with dew upon my head, and grows with a ravenous hunger in my belly. And I can hear seagulls crying out, begging me to eat them.

I’m on the roof of my building, where I collapsed after my flight home. And it seems I’ve slept unchallenged there for fifteen hours or so, if I’m reckoning time right.

Tentatively and gingerly licking my snout with my tongue, I find that I have not been burned by my own flame, but I can taste the traces of chaired fluids on my scales. My nictitating membranes flick into place as I lick my eyes, successfully cleaning them. And then I raise my head and look around.

I didn’t do any damage landing on the roof, so it seems I had a reasonable amount of control even then. Though I don’t fully remember that part.

I remember the flight as being longer than heading out to the cave, and filled with challenges from below. And I remember being quiet, because I needed my breath.

I remember gliding as much as I could to conserve energy and let oxygen build up in my blood.

And I remember deciding, no longer in lucid thought, that my building is my domain and determining to keep it, regardless of what any human says. It’s so fragile, and another dragon could knock it down or set it aflame. But it’s mine, and I’ve just got to do whatever I can to keep it safe.

And now I think about Whitman.

They’re in such a bad spot, with no shelter but a forest that doesn’t suit them, and hardly any people to call their own, unless they do have claim to the west side of the ridge.

I know it’s a bad spot, because they fell back to it after making the effort to drive into the heart of the city and try to take mine.

They must have been watching and tracking me, too. And used their infravision to pick out my apartment. Which speaks to a calculated scheme.

Do I, by chance, have a coveted spot? Or was I just the most vulnerable looking candidate in the downtown area. I am nearly in the center of it, and the nearest other dragons are in other neighborhoods. Which seems unlikely, by population densities. Statistically there should be another dragon or two nearer than that. I think.

Maybe Whitman was another downtown dragon, and that’s why they attacked so viciously and desperately.

I get up and stretch and raise my head to the sky.

After a long and loud challenging cry, I hear reports from my neighbors.

I almost feel reassured by them.

I do it again, and they repeat themselves.

Another.

It feels like they all enjoy this.

I wait.

Someone else calls out, and everyone else replies, including me.

I wonder what the rest of the city is thinking as we do this, joining the birds in the morning song.

And then when we’re done, I start looking out over my domain, looking for likely breakfasts.

I suspect that eating a seagull or two is going to be a confusing experience for me, but it’s going to happen.

theInmara

Yum. Seagull.