You limp out of the blood-soaked arena, struggling to fold a wing that's almost certainly broken. You've left behind a dozen corpses this time. Most are, were, prisoners who'd simply had the rotten luck of being pitted against an actual dragon … while the last had been an armoured, hulking brute of a beast who'd had the smell of a willing volunteer about her.
She'd almost ripped your wing off.
Almost.
Almost.
You'll feel it later. Probably. When your head and body and heart aren't buzzing, when you're calmer, when you're settled back in that awful glass box while the robed figures stare and study …
Except, when you enter the holding area, the moving platform that usually takes you up instead takes you down. Your tail lashes, a growl rattling through you. You've never gone down before. Your tail lashes again, again, again, until a warning zap from the shock collar around your neck stops you cold.
The platform jolts to a stop, and an armoured robot sentry meets you. You want to attack. You don't. (Yet.) Instead you follow where it leads, all the way into … another … holding cell? An occupied holding cell. Half a dozen scared, hostile alien faces stare back at you as the door closes, and you can feel yourself bristle, bloodied feathers puffing and wings half unfurling, the deadly spikes that had been pressed flat against your tail flaring out.
16
She'd almost ripped your wing off.
Almost.
Almost.
You'll feel it later. Probably. When your head and body and heart aren't buzzing, when you're calmer, when you're settled back in that awful glass box while the robed figures stare and study …
Except, when you enter the holding area, the moving platform that usually takes you up instead takes you down. Your tail lashes, a growl rattling through you. You've never gone down before. Your tail lashes again, again, again, until a warning zap from the shock collar around your neck stops you cold.
The platform jolts to a stop, and an armoured robot sentry meets you. You want to attack. You don't. (Yet.) Instead you follow where it leads, all the way into … another … holding cell? An occupied holding cell. Half a dozen scared, hostile alien faces stare back at you as the door closes, and you can feel yourself bristle, bloodied feathers puffing and wings half unfurling, the deadly spikes that had been pressed flat against your tail flaring out.
You don't want to attack.
But you will, if you have to.