Beautiful Monsters

WIP your heart out. More chapters, more coding coming soon!
==Prelude==
Rain.
Rain fell black and cold from a gunmetal-gray sky, silent over an empty city lying in ruins. Foul, heavy, stinking rain, dirty and ever so dark, radioactive rain that hissed and slithered and stank of metal and smoke. The rain beat a hollow thrum against smoke-charred roofs and bomb-cratered streets, running and pooling in the cracks between asphalt and concrete, where neither grass nor weed would ever grow again.
Poison rain fell over the desolate city, extinguishing what ashy fires still burned, stifling what life still survived. Blackened water slicked down the remnants of broken, shelled-out buildings, shattered glass and splintered metal littering the ground as far as the eye could see. The stench of death was everywhere - the stench of blight and decay, rot and ruin. Rain fell bitter as bile, turning each breath into searing agony. All living eyes blistered and burned, all dead eyes stared glassy and sightless at the cloud-locked heavens.
So this was the end. This was the end of all things.
Mourning-black rain pooled in toxic rivulets on a pair of silver-mantled wings, painting an acidic slick over ragged feline hide, dripping off the rawboned spars of jutting ribs. Green eyes, sickening and dull as cloud-veiled moons, flickered up at the sound of footsteps.
“Is it time to die?” Skyra whispered.
So much left unsaid, the best-laid plans yet again undone. The lives of thousands extinguished like so many feeble flames - worthless, hopeless - and soothed on their way by the quiet patter of gentle black rain. Silence rippled across the cold, gray city and the darkling sky - the silence of a thousand rain-washed throats, the stillness of a thousand bloodless hearts.
There was nothing left, at the end. There had been nothing to begin with. All that had once been, all that was beautiful and good, all that had been lost - it had all faded away into the silent oblivion, leaving… nothing. Nothing but black rain, and a broken sky.
This was the end of the world.
I cleared my throat.
“Yes, Skyra. It’s time to die.”
==Chapter 1: A Time for Dying Dragons==
THREE YEARS AGO
I’m not a smart dragon. I kill things.
In fact, once in a while, on those lonely nights when darkness falls dim and metallic, when the drugs they give me to sleep are slow to take hold, I wonder what it feels like to look at someone else and not want to kill them.
It must be awfully nice.
There were exactly a hundred and twelve thin steel girders lining the glass walls of the punishment cell, interlocking each other like so many crisscrossing claw-marks. I knew them all by heart, could count them with my eyes closed. I had spent so many nights face-up on the hard bed here, my eyes turned skywards. The familiar feel of the metal cuffs on my legs, my wings clipped to my sides, each of my four paws bound to a bedpost, my head immobilized by a strap over my forehead.
There was no use struggling. You learned that quickly, because the harder you fought, the tighter the bonds got. I had been in here enough times to know that the only thing to do - the only thing you could do - was to lie still and wait for it all to be over. Not everyone figures it out, though. Once, I watched a dog-MudWing experiment struggle so hard that the bonds literally cut him into pieces.
The very next day, there was a new dog-MudWing hybrid barking away at me in his old cell. The lesson? He can be replaced. You can be replaced. Everyone can be replaced.
My name is Experiment #SKR670
You can call me Skyra.
Footsteps sounded out from down the hall, brisk and light. My ears pricked up at the sound - two sets of footsteps. One heavy, one light. Good, that was good. That meant that my time was up, and someone was coming to fetch me. It had been four hours. I was about to die of boredom.
The pneumatic door of the cell whooshed open with a blast of cool air and an electronic hum. I didn’t dare move a muscle past flicking my ears around - no point in triggering the bonds now that I was nearly through. I listened, my eyes still fixed on the roof of the cell. There was the soft stump of armored feet, and then the scratch of pen on a clipboard. One guard, one scientist.
I wanted to kill them. I wanted to kill them all - because that was what I did. That was all I knew. As soon as the scientist released me, I would leap up, catching them my surprise. I would go for the guard first - because the guard was always armed and armored. I would knock the stun pistol out of his paw with my tail, and then go for the throat. As soon as he was dead, I would free to dispatch the cowering scientist at my leisure. I would steal his keycard and the pistol, and then -
All fantasies. I knew it could never happen. There were cameras everywhere, and I knew that I wouldn’t get two steps out of the room before I took a bullet between the eyes. They’d have a new cat-RainWing in my cell before morning.
But I could always dream.
“Experiment Number SKR670,” the scientist announced in a cool, monotonic female voice. I swiveled my eyes, trying to get a look at her, but I only caught a flash of pale blue scales. RainWing? SeaWing? I couldn’t tell. “Your time in the punishment cell is at an end. Your new instructions are to proceed to the Training Center. Do you understand me?”
I didn’t respond. The scientists didn’t like it when we spoke, or read, or wrote, or demonstrated in any way that we were more than animal. Maybe it was a comfort thing, a way to ease their consciences, for it was a lesser crime to mistreat an animal than a fellow living, breathing, thinking dragon. We were supposed to follow orders, and kill things. It was always a rhetorical question - do you understand? Of course you understood. Of course you would do as you were told. What other option was there?
Besides, life was a bit easier when everyone thought you were a dumb beast. In these labs, you do as your told and bide your time, knowing that they’ll be in for a bloody surprise one day. And, when you get locked up or starved, all you do - all you can do - is look forwards to that day.
Beep. Beep. Boop. The female scientist was entering an eight-digit code into a keypad on the side of my bed, and a half-second later I felt the cuffs on my paws release with a hiss as they retracted back into their sockets. I couldn’t help but let out a sigh of relief, then tensed immediately as the guard trained his rifle at my chest. No, not a stun gun. I knew from experience that those guns held nothing but true, armor-piercing rounds. There were no second chances for the Warborn. A single wrong move, and you were meat. And you’d be replaced, easy as that.
We all knew that those bullets were deadly - the scientists made sure of it. It was a rite of passage for any young Warborn. In your first few months, regardless of whether you were good or not, they would bring you into a laboratory, restrain you, and then shoot you in the leg. Just once. Certainly not in a way that would cripple you for life - they were careful about it. You’d heal quickly, but you’d always remember the bite of the bullet. You'd always remember the pain.
In the Warborn Labs, that was called learning. Learning to obey. Learning to endure.
So I did not move a muscle as the scientist fastened another large metal collar about my neck. “Very good,” she remarked, and I winced as I felt her yank the collar tight around my neck. Still holding the leash, she motioned the guard to lower his weapon. Gingerly, I sat up and got slowly to my paws, getting a good look at my two captors for the first time.
The scientist was a tall, deep blue SeaWing dragoness, her eyes shielded behind a pair of large black glasses. She wore the typical white lab coat, and held a clipboard in one paw and my leash at the other. The guard was an enormous male, clad in white body armor, black rifle sleek and stark in his gloved paws. I only caught the faintest glimpse of brown scales behind his visor - MudWing, most likely.
“Let’s go,” instructed the scientist, snapping my leash. I flattened my ears and lifted my lip in a snarl, and had the pleasure of watching the arrogance fade from her face just a bit. Just a little bit. But resistance was futile - the three of us all knew that, and the prod of the guard’s rifle against my flank was enough to get me to walk forwards.
The three of us proceeded slowly out of the room, the scientist in the lead, me trotting close behind, the guard bringing up the rear with his rifle trained on the back of my head. Normally the guards weren’t this cautious with us, but I, #SKR670, was a proven risk. The official explanation was that I had trouble distinguishing enemies from my handlers, and simply attacked everyone in sight when given half a chance.
But I knew better. Didn’t I?
My claws clicked against the corrugated steel flooring as we walked down the hallway, past rows of cells housing other Warborn. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a bird-SkyWing, a bear-MudWing and… was that a scavenger hybrid? No matter. I began thinking again, fantasizing. Perhaps I would lunge forwards and seize the scientist, wrapping my leash around her throat. I would spin around in time to dodge the guard’s bullets and rush him, using the hapless SeaWing as a shield against his fire. I would hold her as a hostage and -
Again, all daydreams. But it gave me a slight thrill to imagine the terror on that scientist’s face as I slowly throttled the life from her body.
As we drew nearer to the Training Room the relative silence of the hallway became punctuated by yelps, bestial growls, and the heavy thud of blows hitting home - whether on flesh or on the unfeeling plastic of training dummies, I could not tell. The sound, although all too familiar, made the fur along my back and tail prickle up. But neither the SeaWing scientist nor my MudWing guard seemed affected - or if they were, they did not show it.
The double doors to the Training Room were tall and thick, about the height of two dragons and the length of three. Two more bulky white-armored guards stood flanking them, both equipped with the same long, sleek black rifles. I watched their black visors turn towards us as my entourage and I drew nearer. My SeaWing scientist flashed her keycard and the guard in the lead nodded, standing aside as the enormous doors slid silently open.
“Ah, SKR670!” a voice greeted me. “How nice of you to join us.”
The inside of the Training Room was vast - the ceiling soared up above us, almost out of sight. Strips of fluorescent lighting flickered and hummed along the walls, illuminating the scene below. Like in a gymnasium, the floor of the Center was covered in a toughened rubber polymer, easy for paws to find purchase on. Most of the arena was open, but a reinforced glass cubicle in the far corner provided cover for the scientists watching while removed from the action.
Normally the Training Room would be filled with various obstacles and contraptions, but today all of the normal clutter was gone, leaving the entire floor wide open. I looked around, momentarily confused. A vague flutter of apprehension coalesced in the pit of my stomach. This was new. What did they want now?
But there was no point in idly wondering - no doubt I’d find out soon enough. Ignoring the ordinary periphery of white-armored guards and white-coated scientists skittering around the outskirts of the room, I focused on the other two primary occupants of the room. The first of the two was a fellow Warborn, a wolf-IceWing hybrid. LKA335. Luka, her chosen name was. I caught a glimpse of pale, creamy rime-gray fur, studded by jagged IceWing horns protruding from her neck and spine. Her ears were flattened and her green eyes narrowed in what appeared to be deep dissatisfaction - though it was difficult to read Luka’s mood, as that seemed to be her default expression. Like me, she was also collared and accompanied by a guard and scientist. She did not look at me even as I was led to stand next to her, instead keeping her lupine eyes fixed straight ahead.
The other central figure in the room was a tall, thin black NightWing, the whiteness of his lab coat stark against the blackness of his scales.
Not just a scientist. The Scientist. Even though I did not make an effort to learn the names of my captors, I could not help but know his. This was Conundrum, Head Scientist of Project Warborn.
The Scientist was an enigma to me, and indeed, to all of us. Even I could not help but notice the deference that the other white-coats showed to him, the way that each and every command he gave was followed to the letter. He occupied a strange spot in my mind, in that he was the only scientist that I did not think about killing. For the very idea was so futile, so utterly unfathomable, that even I could not bring myself to dwell on it. You might as well fantasize about the sky falling, or about the world coming to an end, before thinking of killing the Scientist.
“Good morning, SKR670, LKA335,” Conundrum beamed, reciting our serial numbers from memory as he deftly adjusted the silver-framed glasses perched on his snout. He smiled kindly at me - and I did not like that one bit. It made the fur on my hackles rise. Perhaps it was my conditioning, but I viewed any act of kindness directed towards me with deep suspicion. I had been raised in the labs - his labs - where strength was prized and weakness punished by death. Kindness was something other, something alien and strange. Something that did not belong here. Something that I did not deserve.
The Scientist gestured towards my two attendants, who immediately began to undo my restraints. A rattle and clink, and I felt the collar around my neck fall away. The SeaWing let go of my leash and retreated back towards the glass cubicle in the far corner of the room, the MudWing guard following close behind her. He kept his rifle trained on me, in case I tried to make a move towards them. I shot the two of them a baleful glare, but otherwise stayed put as the duo dashed behind the safety of bulletproof glass, beyond my reach.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw that Luka had been similarly freed. Now the two of us were standing unbound, alone in the middle of the training floor, with the Scientist no more than two dragon-lengths in front of us. The NightWing stood his ground fearlessly, carelessly, his benevolent smile unwavering. Between me and Luka, we could have been on him in seconds. We could have torn him apart before any guard had the chance to raise his rifle.
But we didn’t. Of course we didn’t. We couldn’t. Even if our physical restraints had been lifted, the bonds of our upbringing, our conditioning, still held us fast. We couldn’t lift a paw against the Scientist, for in our minds he was untouchable. And he knew that.
Conundrum lifted his paw once more and beckoned towards the main entrance of the training facility. Luka and I both turned to look, as the doors slid silently open once more.
We knew something was different right away. It was all in the scent - the scent of blood, the scent of fear. Instinctively our ears pricked forwards, our hackles rose. We watched intently as two more white-armored guards stepped into the room, but it was what they hauled between them that interested us the most.
It was a SandWing dragon, muzzled and bound across the wings and legs. The novelty of seeing an ordinary dragon and not a fellow Warborn so restrained struck me for a fraction of a second, but I did not think to question it. Luka and I watched silently, our heads turning, as the two guards crossed the training floor and deposited the limp SandWing at Conundrum’s feet. I cast a quick look at Luka, and was a little startled to see the hungry, predatory expression on her face. The twin smells of fear and blood seemed to have aroused something primal in the wolf-IceWing, and I resisted the urge to back away from her.
The Scientist stood back, and the guards got to work. Moving quickly and efficiently, they attached the leg-cuffs of their SandWing prisoner to small hooks in the floor. His wings and neck collar they pulled upwards and clipped to long cables hanging down from the ceiling above. In a matter of seconds they were finished, and the SandWing was suspended in a spread-eagle position. The cords would not allow him to move more than an inch in any direction, and the muzzle clamped across his snout silenced his voice. Only the terrified flicker of his eyes betrayed that he was alive, and not just a trussed corpse.
Conundrum stepped forwards once more. All the while, his gracious smile had not faltered for so much as a heartbeat. I saw that he was holding something in his paw, something small and metallic, and it took me a moment to recognize it as a can of spray paint. I stared at the little tin object, utterly bemused and more than a little uneasy. What was he playing at?
“You two are in for a special treat today,” the Scientist told us, shaking the can of paint. Click-clack-clack. “Today, you will finally have the chance to put all that you have been learning to a… practical application.”
He took a few steps closer to us, paint can in paw. “As I am sure you know, the two of you - and indeed every other recombinant creature in this facility - were created for one purpose, and one purpose only: to fight and win the war. Hence your name.” Now he gestured grandly at the SandWing dragon immobilized behind him. “This dragon here is an enemy. He fought against our side on the battlefield. Now he has been captured, and brought here to further your education.”
The SandWing whimpered softly through his muzzle. Conundrum ignored him. The Scientist took a step towards the SandWing, raised his tin can, and sprayed a black circle on the bare scales of the prisoner’s chest. Pssshhhtt. The acrid stench of paint filled the air, blistering in my sensitive nose.
“Observe,” Conundrum called to us, stepping back and admiring his handiwork. The prisoner quivered as the inky paint on his chest dripped, slow and viscous, down his forelegs.
Very much WIP, sorry to leave off in the middle of the action like this. More coming soon!
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