Inside, it looks like business as usual.
But then, when I take a closer study of the bustling entranceway, I can tell something is definitely off, though I can’t quite put my claw on what it is.
The first thing I notice is that I don’t smell Dr. Terrible in the air, not even a trace of him. And usually this place just flat out reeks of Dr. Terrible. I used to joke with my grandpa that he could bottle his fiendish dragon scent and sell it as a cologne called Depravity.
The second thing I notice here inside the entranceway is my black horns are tingling like crazy. I flick my scaly green tail around behind me, keeping it ready to help propel me with lightning speed if I need to make any sudden movements.
Now this Center for Combat & Conquer represents the apex in Dr. Terrible’s pedagogy. And if pumping up BIOCON LEVS is your thing, then this is definitely the hottest game on the island.
I squat here for a moment taking in the scene. Dragon cadets decked out in combat gear are flying this way and that, heading into the bowels of the building for their advanced training. WarWings professors in their robes and cloaks are flapping their wings and flying about.
Injured cadets on gurneys wheel by. These wounded dragons have ghastly smoking charred patches on their scales and their fried flesh is showing through. I see where one of the dragons being wheeled by has had his hind legs chopped off and now there’s just these bandaged bloodied stumps.
Another dragon cadet being wheeled by has a sucking chest wound. His bandaged head is jerking back and forth so fast you’d think he was being electrocuted. Another dragon going by is laid out on his belly and you can plainly see where his wings have been chewed off right up to the joint. Some of these poor bastards have got their beaks twisted up and are shrieking in agony while others are blacked out and unconscious, leaking fluids onto the floor.
Then I see a brain floating inside a big glass jar, being wheeled on a gurney. The floating brain has all these wires and tubes running into it.
And the dragon medic who’s wheeling the gurney uses his talon knuckles to rap on the brain’s glass container, and says, “How you holding up in there, cadet?”
“I reckon I’m doing OK, sir,” says the brain’s voice through some sort of microphone. “Boy, I thought for sure I was going to die during this morning’s training, sir. It was the weirdest thing. When I stumbled upon them barbarian dwarves and they unloaded on me with those acid-vaporizer guns, well I figured I was a goner, sir. I swear I could feel myself dissolving and I remember thinking how I was definitely dying right then!”
“Well, son,” says the dragon medic, “it was a real close call. That’s a tough strain of dwarf you were trying to conquer this morning. We imported them from the planet Krolnix. And when we’re not using those dwarves for training, we keep them in our maximum-containment facility. Those Krolnix dwarves are real nasty bastards. That’s why we welded those muzzles onto their heads. But you performed well this morning, son. And because of our advanced technology here at the Institute, we were able to evac you from that bunker in the nick of time.”
“Say, sir,” says the brain in the glass container, “when do I get to take this gauze off my head and open my eyes? You said it would only be a few minutes. And I know this may sound crazy, but I could swear it feels like it’s already been several days since you said that. When do I get to open my eyes, sir?”
“Well, son,” says the dragon medic, “we’re nearly finished prepping the wound. It’ll be just a few seconds. We’re almost there. But first we have to—” And then the medic reaches out with his talon and starts shaking the glass container super hard and the brain with all those wires in it is getting sloshed around.
“What was that, sir?” says the jiggling brain. “You’re breaking up, sir. I’m afraid I’m feeling sort of dizzy, sir. I may need to take a short rest…”
Well the mortality rate for training here at the Center for Combat & Conquer is through the roof. And before a dragon can begin training here, he or she has to make a last will and testament for their hoard and lair.
And when I made my will, I went ahead and bequeathed everything I owned to Fribby. At first the WarWings administration had made a big stink about me leaving my hoard to Fribby and they said it wasn’t allowed, because she was a robot and all. But eventually my will and testament was run up the WarWings chain of command and was finally approved. Because Fribby is a MortalMachine dragon and she’d been hatched in the WarWings Creative Evolution Lab, so what could they say, really?
Now over the audiomembranes they are playing the booms of a volcano erupting overlaid with the near constant scream of a terrified creature. Well, I know these screams are part of Dr. Terrible’s advancements in the field of Sound Therapy Training for WarWings cadets. Because there’s not a dragon on Blegwethia who doesn’t consider the scream of a terrified creature to be liquid gold to the earholes.
The most acclaimed musicians on our planet are dragons who stick a foreign creature in a torture device and then proceed to press buttons so that the creature’s agonized screams form a rapturous melody. For dragons these tortured screams are what we call classical music.
But my scaly green grandpa took the whole concept one step further and applied it to the combat training of WarWings cadets. So with an eye to jacking up cadets’ BIOCON LEVS, he composed a series of what he calls scientifically informed Scream Operas, which are designed to enhance and fortify a dragon’s WILL TO POWER.
Dr. Terrible’s research results confirmed that regular auditory exposure to his Scream Operas boost a dragon’s scores in nearly every conceivable category: WING STRENGTH & FLIGHT CAPABILITY, SCALE DENSITY & LUSTER, FIRESTREAM BLAST RADIUS, CORE FLAME TEMP, MATING MAGNETISM, TRAUMA SURVIVAL READINESS, CONQUERING CAPABILITY, HORN DENSITY & MASS, TONGUE SHOOTING ACCURACY, VENOM POTENCY & VISCOSITY, and of course the all-important HEART MASS REDUCTION & SHRINKAGE.
Even I have to admit the repetitive sound of Dr. Terrible’s Scream Opera right now blasting over the audiomembranes is getting my juices going. My toe claws involuntarily shoot out and my nostrils flare.
Who am I kidding?
I’ve missed this place over the last couple months, and I didn’t realize how much I’ve been missing it until now.
It feels good to be back.
I snort firebolts out my nostrils and swagger forth.
Now as I step up to the greeting console, this old crusty Admin dragonette eyeballs me through the glasses perched on the end of her scaly green snout.
“I’m here for my Friday session,” I say.
This old dragonette keeps glancing up at the top of my head, like she’s clocking my tiny horns. “We’ll need your talon match,” she snarls. “Just put your palm against that biometric ID scanner, and it’ll do the rest.”