You are posted out by the Hollywood sign tonight, sitting under the frame where the W used to be. It got burnt to a crisp during last weekâs big superhero fight. A hero died right where youâre sitting. The whole areaâs been closed down until Hero Force can coordinate a recovery effort. Usually itâd be done by now but no oneâs willing to touch it until the ash has been completely blown away.
Itâs a rule that the world must stand still when a hero dies.
âHow much?â
The voice comes from behind you. The lights that illuminate the Hollywood sign are down to hide as much of the scorch marks as possible. You wouldnât be able to see anything even if you did turn around, so you donât.
You put some chapstick on, the glide of the balm against your wind chapped lips grounding.
âI said,â the Hero says, voice tightening, âHow. Much.â
Thereâs the sound of gravel crunching now. Theyâre wearing heavy boots and the scent of fresh blood grows stronger the closer they get. Their breathing is smooth and even which means itâs not their blood.
You put the cap back on your chapstick and tuck it into your leather jacketâs inner pocket. âI donât take money.â
âThen what do you take?â The Hero rounds the Y and comes into your line of sight. The dark hides most of their features, but you can make out a glittering gold mask and the dull shine of drying blood on their chest plate. Their breathing may be even, but their stance isnât. They sway in place, back and forth, back and forth. Their arms wrap around their stomach. âIâve got land. A house. You can have it.â
Ada is staring out the window. Itâs one of her favorite past times, the one she finds herself returning to over and over again. Of course, itâs one of the only past times one can have, locked in a small, barren room with a cot, desk, toilet area, and fucking window, but she likes to have her little hobbies.
In about an hour, sheâll start her second hobbyâflushing the toilet over and over and over just to hear something in the concrete and steel room.
Exciting times.
Itâs a Tuesday according to the long list of scratch marks on the window pane. She keeps track in sevens, over and over, seven tally marks in seven rows. Sometimes, when they take her out for recreational time, she comes back to find her hard work painted over, smoothed over, erased. On those days she gets a warning and a little less supper.
No one trusts witches with too many sevens. Sheâd love to tell them how theyâre looking for the wrong number with herânot that type of witchâbut that would involve talking. Talking used to be her favorite hobby, even over flushing the toilet, but sheâd given it all up for him.
Sheâs given up a lot of things for him. Willingly, even. She can feel the curse under her skin bubbling with each little thing, roiling and pushing, desperate to get out. Sheâs already fed it her name, her voice, that little hiccup at the end of her laugh, and a few other bits and bobs from her own personality. Personalities are easy to re-grow, easy to fit around broken parts of her heart, she doesnât need them.
She thinks thatâs why the curse isnât quite ready yet. Everything sheâs given it is replaceable. Sheâs already calling herself Ada, desperate to hold onto some form of identity within these four walls. Itâs another thing she could sacrifice, but she already knows thatâs not what the curse really wants.
Youâve just realized something strange about the humans. Theyâre a race that joined the galaxy recently, but youâve just found evidence of them already been part of it for many millennia before, but it feels like everybodyâs forgotten.
We were delighted when the people calling themselves âhumansâ joined the spacefaring races. They were clever and agile, hot-tempered and humorous, fierce and yet friendly, a young species with much to offer us.Â
Most species are still delighted. But we are the Bybleotekar, the recorders of the spaceways, and we have begun to wonder. Our merry companions are⊠not different, but too much the same. They understand so readily, accept so quickly - most new species have trouble adjusting to dealing with aliens, to the realities of space travel, to the sheer bigness of the universe. But the humans are so adaptable, so ready for it all, they might be remembering something theyâve forgotten, not learning something new.Â
Some of us, the Izaslanik of the Bybleotekar, the gatherers of information for the record keepers, began encouraging humans to join us, that we might study them more closely. They like the work - they are a curious species, delighting in new knowledge, and they make able assistants. My human companion is named Mira, a young female. She is a good companion, who sings sweetly and laughs often.Â
When Mira struck the first blow against what I thought I knew of the universe, against illusions soon to shatter that I had thought were truth, we were attending the coronation of a lesser Netar of the Kktil, recording the customs and ceremonies and unofficially enjoying the colourful celebrations. Mira was watching the dancing, her mouth widened in a âsmileâ. âItâs so pretty,â she said, her hairless face sheened with sweat under the hot sun. âI love the turquoise jewellery.â She pointed to the bright blue stones that bedecked the dancers. âI should buy some. Our homeworld doesnât have any turquoise, you know. Only a few pieces we brought with us when we came.âÂ
It takes me a little while to understand what she said. It is only later, during the feasting, that I turn to her again. âYou said your homeworld doesnât have turquoise. Only⊠what you brought with you. Do you mean turquoise you have bought offworld, since you joined the spaceways?âÂ
[This idea has been rattling in my brain and I had to share it.]
I know we all love the âhumans are space orcsâ concept⊠but imagine, onboard the new ship theyâve been assigned to, the human meets an actual space orc. A massive monster⊠fangs and tusks and scars and a battle-hardened stare, looming over all the other life forms on the ship in its thick indestructible armour it refuses to remove. It barely drinks, it doesnât need sleep, its massive shoulders are heavy with the terrible things it has experienced. Compared to the squishy & delicate human body, this thing is a walking tank.
⊠Except instead of hating/ignoring one another, the human and the monster start bonding over both coming from death planets. The human is excited to find a life form who doesnât quiver with fear at the vague description of a jellyfish and the monster is ecstatic to meet someone who understands the feeling of being bitten by a quaâlem (cats are pretty close). They sit together and compare dangerous animals and locations as the other aliens look on in confusion and fear⊠oh, you also have dense jungles of deadly hidden predators, boiling acid lakes, tamed predatory killers, and areas with horrendously high and low temperatures? Sick!!Â
It doesnât take long before the two of them become totally inseparable. The human loves not feeling like some kind of crazy outsider and the monster is overjoyed theyâve finally found an equal in this unkillable marshmallow.
Monster: When I was a youngling, a grol-lik stung straight through my armour. The pain lasted for approximately 16 human hours.
Human: Oh yeah man, I get that. As a kid I got a wasp stuck in my shirt. It stung me like four times, it was awful, and all my cousins just laughed at meâŠ
Monster: [using their arm screen to research human courting methods] I see.
The space orc is delighted to finally know a species that, as a whole, does not tend to fear them. if anything, the fact they are large and âscaryâ looking and designed to survive nearly anything seems to make the humans almost resentful but in a friendly sort of way. The idea that any species can go where humans canât is taken as a challenge to our very DNA and their homeworld quickly sees a blossoming human tourism industry as humans fling themselves into the most challenging and dangerous of places even the actual orcs consider exploring carefully.
âThe introduction of these two species may be, galactically speaking, something akin to an ecological disaster.â
âHow so, Puir?â the junior researcher asked, their multifaceted eyes sparkling with curiosity. âAre they dangerous to one another? Humans seem to get along with every species they meet and the Hilammu are known to be a gentle, if physically intimidating, species.â
Puir wobbled their head in the negative expression. âActually, the problem seems to be that encountering the Hilammu and their world has⊠exacerbated human predilections.â
Pez gaped for a moment. âBut⊠how is that evenââ
âIn the past six months three hundred and eight humans have died on Mogruâlam, despite the Hilammu trying to protect them from themselves. The human phrase, âWatch thisâ has become a meme amongst the Hilammu indicating a likely fatal choice.â
The junior researcher blanched. âBut the humans only made contact with the Hilammu eight of their months ago!â
The senior researcher on sentients behavior purred in what was the equivalent of a human sigh of exasperation. âTheyâve requested to set up an embassy on Mogruâlam and three dozen Terra-based companies have asked the Hilammu if they can buy land to establish a tourist industry.â
âThe humans have become an ecological threat to Mogruâlam?â Pez was horrified. The human history with their own hell-world was well known as a cautionary tale amongst other species.
But instead, Puirâs four eyes blinked furiously and they wobbled a negative response again. âNo no noâif anything the humans have made a point of impacting Mogruâlam as little as possible. The threat is to themselves - at this rate, the Hilammu are concerned the humans will develop a death cult based around their planet! They have voiced strong concerns about the humans doing something called âbase divingâ, which is apparently different from a separate complaint of humans âfree divingâ. Also, for reasons which none have managed to explain, they keep trying to climb Gurhorkat.â
âGurhorkat?â
âIt is the tallest and least hospitable mountain on Mogruâlam. It stands at ten kilometers above their sea level, the highest kilometer of which has oxygen too thin for human lungs. The Hilammu keep having to rescue them or retrieve their bodies.â
âThatâs terrible!â gaped the junior researcher. âWhy would they try such a thing? Hillammu lungs can barely breathe at that altitude, and they modified their species for that trait!â
Puir rubbed their forehead. âBecause, and this is a quote from several humans, âyou just gotta.â So you can see the cause for this to be considered our problem.â
The junior researcher felt a bit faint. âI know we must work to preserve all sentient species and their well-being as a matter of galactic ecology but⊠but maybe some species should be exceptions? Humans seem to survive fine without us despite their best efforts.â
âThere is also concern some humans will ask to co-settle with the Hilammu.â
âThey canât be serious.â
âThe Hilammu love the humans but they are seeking a sentient ecological protective order for their own good.â
âWhat have the humans said?â
Again, Puir found themselves rubbing their forehead. âThe human ambassador replied, âWell, if they donât want us moving in thatâs fine. Weâll settle in the neighboring system.ââ
Pez thought for a moment. âThere are no habitable planets there. The closest is an M-class thatâs less hospitable than Mogruâlam. Oh no.â
In a world where genies are commonplace and delight in granting wishes in the most inconvenient way possible, you are a defense attorney who must defend your client, a well-meaning genie who is charged with felonious wish-granting.
It wasnât the first time Iâd had to defend Jimmy, and it wouldnât be the last. Heâs got to be one of the most-litigated genies whoâs ever lived, which is a little unfair, since heâs also actually one of the most genuinely benign. He just gets things wrong a lot.Â
Like, a *lot*.Â
So wrong.
So often.Â
See, all genies will, to some extent, screw with wishes. Itâs their nature. With some of them, if you wish for âa horseâ, they give you a heavily insured and very identifiable race-horse and watch the catastrophe unfold. Others will just mess with the wish a little bit, say, by giving you a foal instead of a currently rideable horse or something. But everyone knows they need to be careful with their wording, these days, so itâs not usually too bad. (Unless you violate the three rules. Wish to raise the dead, to kill someone, or to make someone fall in love with you, and they will get *very* unpleasant.)Â
One night, you decide to put your phone under your pillow. When you wake up in the morning, your phone is replaced by cash totaling what you paid for your phone. Turns out the tooth fairy takes more than just teeth.
You regret the loss of your phone, of course, but the tooth fairy gave you brand new market price and so you bought a new one with the cash and pocketed the rest.
You experiment. Sticking items under your pillow is better than the hassle of Facebook marketplace.
She doesnât take the plastic plate set youâve tried to sell for weeks, but she takes a gold rimmed china saucer from your Grandmaâs old set. You get brand new market value for it - from 1946 when it had been bought.
She ignores jeans and books, but trades for spoons and costume jewelry. The tooth fairy, you realize, is a bit of a magpie. If itâs a little bit shiny, sheâll give you cash.
You clear out the jewelry table at a garage sale, place them one by one under your pillow. The amount you get varies, but still is brand new market value of when the item was originally bought. Nothing more than $50, but thatâs better than the $8 you bought it for.
After a few weeks, something changes. Your bank account isnât as empty, your pillow is thicker. You take a nap, because sleeping on items isnât the most comfortable. You wake up to a crinkle, a note next to your nose.
The writing is tiny, you need your phoneâs magnifier to read it, but it turns out just as youâve been using the tooth fairy, she wants to use you. Sheâs dropped off a list of wants; hints at a finder fee in cash or precious metals.
Itâs specific, odd stuff. A clean dollar coin. A chandelier crystal. A reversible sequin pillow. Antique holiday ornaments. Photo hooks. All, you think, easy to get.
You sign her contract with a purple sparkly gel pen and offer it as a freebie.
EDIT: This story and some of my other fae-inspired fantasy ones now have their own anthology! Check out Fae Deals.
âMy lord, I know you are the demon lord and I am but a lowly advisor, but please listen to me. I suggest that instead of sending the hero slightly stronger demons to kill each time, we just send the strongest one right awayâ
âDo you know why the heroes fight us, advisor?â
âBecauseâŠ. because we threaten their homeland, my lord?â
âAnd why do we threaten their homeland?â
âBecause Kushiel rules it and she exiled you?â
âClose. Because Kushiel rules it and she must be stopped. But we cannot stop her.â
âIâm⊠not sure I follow, my liege.â
âI am not surprised. This war started long before you were born, did it not?â
âYes, my lord, at least a dozen centuries before.â
âAnd I was at least a dozen centuries old when this war began. We sent our strongest soldiers, our mightiest armies. And Kushiel sent children.â
âChildrenâŠ? Then⊠how did we not win?â
âWould you like to fight an army of children? See the light that should have burned a century be snuffed out after barely a decade?â
âWell⊠not particularly, no.â
âNor did we, and Kushiel knew this. She gives them no training for she knows the worse off they are the worse it will be for us to face them. This went on for several centuries. She fills her peopleâs heads with stories, false prophecies about how a child will someday defeat the tyrannical ruler who threatens them. And so, we are helping that prophecy become true.â
âWait, what?â
âWe cannot hope to defeat Kushiel. We do not know her with any intimacy. We cannot predict her movements. All we know is she will keep sending children. So we train them. We send out weakest soldiers, those willing to die knowing their sacrifice will eventually be her undoing. Someday, a hero will come who is able to defeat us. A hero who will slaughter our weakest, then our next weakest, and will continue to do so until even I lay dead at their feet. And then the hero will come here and sit in my throne and peer from my grand window. Sit. Tell me what they will see.â
âItâŠ. Itâs a graveyard, sir.â
âThose are the graves of all the children Kushiel has sent to die at our hands. Some became adults before they finally fell, but they were always children when they started. We bury them here. And someday a hero will come who will free us from this grievous task. They will take my throne, sit upon it, and see what Kushiel deemed a worthy price for this mere chair. And then the hero will realize who they must fight next. And thanks to us, they will have gained the strength and training necessary to make sure the prophecy is fulfilled and the tyrant will finally die.â
There is a statue on the cliffs overlooking the harbour, of a man shading his eyes with one hand and looking out over the sea.
They say that when invaders came, a man went up to the cliffs, and prayed to the gods. He offered them his own life to save his people. The gods accepted his sacrifice, and a great fire burned across the water, sinking all the ships. The man became stone, and ever since then he has stood on the cliffs, looking out at ships that sank long ago.
There is a statue that stands in the center of the town, of an old woman with both hands held up before her, palm out.
They say that when invaders came again, a woman stood in the middle of the square, and ordered them to halt. She reminded them of the great fire that sank the ships years before, and called on the gods to strike down any man who took one more step, though it cost her life. The gods accepted her sacrifice, and the invaders who stepped forward became water, running back down the hill towards the sea and soaking the boots of the men behind them. The survivors fled in fear, and the woman became stone, her feet set among the cobbles, her hands raised to stop invaders long gone.
There is a statue that stands by the road that runs past our village, of a young woman holding a basket.
They say that when brigands came upon the village in the teeth of a hard winter, starving and desperate, a woman saw them coming and offered them the food in her basket. They mocked her, saying that so little would not feed them for a day. She, too, called on the gods, and she, too, was answered. She made a bargain with their leader, that every man would turn back when he had all the food he could carry. From that one basket, she filled every banditâs hands and sacks with food until he could carry no more. When she had filled even the leaderâs hands, she bowed her head and became stone, her basket empty at last. The bandits kept to their bargain, and never troubled the village again.
We all know these stories. We all know why those people became stone, stone that does not weather.
The Robot Apocalypse came. Cities are empty, you stayed since youâre almost out of insulin and will die soon anyway. The robots find you and while processing you one of them sees your insulin pump and asks if you want to apply for dual citizenship, since the pump technically makes you a cyborg.
Suddenly all the people with prosthetics, wheelchairs, implants, and the like are getting the accommodations and help they need without having to be poor or locked away in a care center. This is an apocalypse I can get behind!
They said it was nothing personalâthe bus could only fit so many people, after all, and escape would be hard enough without âdead weightâ dragging them down.
We understood. The world was ending, not changing.
âShouldnât we be looking for shelter or something?â Samantha asked as we sat around a garbage-can fire. (Tao was experienced in making them, from what we gathered, and the flames had grown in no time. We tried to ask him how he knew what to do. He responded, but none of us knew sign language.)
Hank snorted. âWhatâs the point? Not like weâll make it long, anyway.â He rubbed the spot beneath his shirt where we knew his insulin pump to be. âLeast, I wonât. You folks are welcome to try.â
No one spoke for quite a while. No one got up, either.
Maria garbled something that I couldnât make out. Antonio, one of the only able-bodied to stay behind, smiled and patted the armrest of her wheelchair. âIt is kind of like camping,â he said. âAll we need is some marshmallows.â
âIâve never been camping,â Dwayne said quietly.
Samantha grinned. âHey, me neither!â She held her prosthetic at arms-length so she could reach past me to give him a high-five. He chuckled and slapped his palm against hers.
âWell,â Monique said, hobbling back to our makeshift camp. She was using what appeared to be a broom as a crutch. âIâm officially on my last leg.â She waggled her eyebrows, and we groaned.
âAnyway, I didnât find any water,â she continued. âThereâs some Mountain Dew cases over at the gas station, but Iâll need help carrying them back. Doesnât help that this one got stuck under some debris.â She gestured down at her stump, which cut off just below the knee. The plastic of her other leg was scuffed and dented.
âYa know,â Hank said, âif it was real, ya probably wouldâve had ta chew it off or something. Guess youâre lucky, huh?â
Monique laughed humorlessly. âYeah. Real lucky.â
Tao startled us with his sudden chuckling. He bent over, wheezing and slapping his knee. He signed something, and began laughing even harder.
We looked to each other, unsure. Then we joined in. Hesitantly, at first, but soon we were clutching our sides and wiping away tears. And for a moment, we could forget.
All of us heard the familiar whirring of robots as they approached.
Through our laughter, none of us cared.
ââââ
They scanned Hank first. We braced ourselves for the blaster fire that would inevitably follow.
But none came.
âIMPLANT DETECTED,â the bot said, beam stopping on Hankâs abdomen. âPROTOCOL-13163 INITIATED. WILL YOU ACCEPT?â
Hank glanced at us, then back at the robots who had spotlights and guns trained on each member of the group. Then he shrugged.
âSure. Why not?â
âYOUR DESIGNATION IS NOW FL-237. YOU SHALL BE ESCORTED TO THE REPAIR BAY FOR MODIFICATIONS.â Two bots took place on either side of Hank, urging him towards their transport.
The treatment was a stark contrast to what weâd witnessed from the robots beforeâgunning down terrified people in the streets, setting charges throughout populated areas. We exchanged confused looks.
Dwayne was next. The scanner stopped on his head, focusing on the lump housing his shunt.
âIMPLANT DETECTED. PROTOCOL-13163 INITIATED. WILL YOU ACCEPT?â
ââŠyes?â
âYOUR DESIGNATION IS NOW FL-238. YOU SHALL BE ESCORTED TO THE REPAIR BAY FOR MODIFICATIONS.â
As they took Dwayne away, realization hit us all at once.
âIMPLANT DETECTED,â the bot said, in reference to the devices curled around Taoâs ears. âPROTOCOL-13163 INITIATED. WILL YOU ACCEPT?â
Tao signed something. Unlike us, the robot understood.
âYOUR DESIGNATION IS NOW FL-239âŠâ
ââââ
âWILL YOU ACCEPT?â
âHell yeah,â Monique said with a grin.
ââââ
âWILL YOU ACCEPT?â
âYes,â Samantha said, and I thought I noticed tears in her eyes.
ââââ
âWILL YOU ACCEPT?â
Mariaâs limbs flailed spastically, and a strange shrieking sound built in the back of her throat. The bot cocked its head to the side.
âRESPONSE UNCLEAR. PLEASE STAND BY WHILE ALTERNATE COMMUNICATION IS PROVIDED.â
Another robot stepped forward, its torso transforming into a holographic keyboard of sorts. Mariaâs clenched fist shot forward, trembling as she attempted to steady it. With labored, deliberate movements, she typed, the letters spoken aloud in an automated tone.
âY-E-S.â
âYOUR DESIGNATION IS NOW FL-242. YOU SHALL BE ESCORTED TO THE REPAIR BAY FOR MODIFICATIONS.â Two bots took their place on either side of her wheelchair, each of them gripping a handlebar. They began to wheel her away.
The bot turned to Antonio, who was standing ramrod-straight. It scanned him.
âNO IMPLANTS DETECTED,â it said. Its blaster hummed to life. Those of us that remained flinched, turning away instinctively, unwilling to watch his execution.
A series of shrieks rang through the night, and the bot paused.
Maria thrashed about, letting out more distressed noises. One of her escorts stepped forward, allowing her to utilize its keyboard.
âA-C-C-O-M-O-D-A-T-I-O-N,â she said. âH-E. I-S. E-X-T-E-N-S-I-O-N.â
The bot seemed to consider for a moment.
Then its gun folded away.
âACCOMODATION PROTOCAL INITIATED,â it told Antonio. âYOUR DESIGNATION IS NOW FL-242B. PLEASE ACCOMPANY YOUR PRIMARY UNIT.â
Antonio stumbled forward, then fell to his knees before the wheelchair. He wrapped his sister in a shuddering hug.
Over his shoulder, I caught a glimpse of Mariaâs face, and I could swear I saw her smile.
ââââ
My pacemaker was enough to earn me a spot among the botsâ ranks. I was surprised by just how many humans lived in the facility (though in hindsight, perhaps I shouldnât have been)âI was even more surprised by our treatment. Not having use of recharging stations, we were provided with bunks and dorms. The cafeteria, while somewhat lacking in options, offered all of the nutrition a carbon-based lifeform could ask for.
And then there were the upgrades.
âReal lucky, huh?â Monique said, taking the seat beside me in the cafeteria. Her robotic legs moved smoothly, fluidly. (âYou canât even notice,â sheâd said upon first receiving them, before remembering that there were no longer any stares or judgement to hide from.)
âDamn lucky,â Hank agreed. (If we hadnât been processed when we were, he wouldâve been dead within a week. Here, insulin was never in short supply; as it turned out, it wasnât nearly as expensive to make as weâd been led to believe.)
Samantha twirled a fork between her fingers, smiling at the satisfying click-click-click of metal on metal. âHey, Dwayne, howâd your checkup go?â
âGreat!â he said, beaming. âThis new shunt works even better than my last one. Not a single problem since they put it in.â
Congratulations, Tao signed. He was no longer emaciated, as heâd been when we first metâregular meals and a roof over his head really had done wonders for his health. His smile, of course, was infectious as ever.
Antonio approached, carrying his and Mariaâs trays. He wore the uniform of a maintenance tech, though it was more of a formality than anything elseâbeing responsible for the upkeep of Mariaâs machinery was one of the only ways he could fulfill his Accommodation Protocol, nowadays.
Did you remember the pudding? Maria asked, her automated voice clear and pleasant. (We couldnât begin to understand the exact mechanics behind the chip in her head, and how it allowed her to speakâalbeit through a machine. Nor could we understand the technology that enabled her to operate her wheelchair independently, as well. But we did know we were grateful for it.)
Antonio rolled his eyes. âA âthanksâ would be nice.â
Thank you. Now gimme.
ââââ
I did wonder, occasionally, how the other survivors were faring. If they had found a place to hide from their robotic overlords. If they felt hopeless and abandoned and alone. Their lives had changed drastically overnightâtheir world had ended.
But ours? Ours is just beginning. And the ones that left us behind justâŠdonât have a place in it.
I found this on twitter by user Kingfisher & Wombat. https://twitter.com/UrsulaV/status/1568685612168892423?cxt=HHwWjsC-2ZjQi8UrAAAA
Thought it was too good not to share. First comic in quite a while thatâs got me in tears, âcos it felt like hope, and, well, what with everythingâŠ
Oops, I never uploaded this one to Tumblr (which I only realized when someone else did, but then was kind enough to tag me, thank you)!
This is the comic that kickstarted my obsession with telling stories with as few panels as I could (usually 10-11 haha), so itâs got a soft spot in my heart.Â
âYes,â you say, trailing your hand along machine dials, turning them and, ultimately fucking up whatever the machine had been calibrated to do. Judging by the size of it, spanning one side of the lab and towering above your six foot frame, it must do a lot. Your ex-coworkerâs always been a lot. âYes,â you say again. âI never expected the Hero to leave you alive.â
The Dark Lord, the strongest magic-user on the planet, tech-genius and billionaire, struggles against the simple ropes youâve used to tie him to his desk chair. The power-suppressors the Hero left on him are blinking furiously, flaring each time he tries to use his power and is denied. The ones on his ankles are red, the ones on his wrists are blue, and the one around his neck is green.
It looks like a disco in here.
âI donât understand,â he says through gritted teeth. The bruises the hero left behind are almost healed despite landing yesterdayâthe Dark Lordâd injected himself with a super-healing serum years ago. âI thought you retired.â
âI did,â you admit. You peer at one of the screens on the machine and are delighted to see a tsunami building up off the Florida Coast. âDid you build an earthquake machine? The Hero must have missed this lab if they didnât take this.â Your eyes slide to where heâs glaring at you. You smile. âGood. It means they wonât know where to look when they realize youâve gone missing.â
You donât think Juniper is listening. Behind his leafy, green mask, his eyes are very far away and his lips are pressed into a thin line. His curling vines are swaying gently in the breeze and are barely wrapped around your ankles and wrists. If you wanted to you could very easily escape, but, somehow, Juniperâs sudden openness has you frozen to the spot.
Maybe this is some sort of ploy to keep you contained until his teammates arrive?
âItâs not like I want to keep secrets from them,â he continues, seemingly ignoring your objection. âBut what can I say? Oh, sorry, I have to go stop Discus from cancelling gravity at the Mayorâs birthday party? My dad could barely deal with me missing Superbowl Sunday to have my appendix removed.â
âOh geez,â you say, âyouâre sure giving me a lot of identifying information here.â You refrain from pointing out that your power doesnât let you cancel gravity, only manipulate the forces already being exerted on an object in space. Itâs never served any villain well to give power specifics to a hero.Â
âOr,â Juniper continues, leaning against the cedar sapling thatâs been slowly thickening behind him, âlike that time when I had to take my AP tests on the day my grandparents came to town? And then I had to stop you from levitating all that money out of the bank? So I got home super late? Mom totally melted down. Itâs not even hero stuff at this point, itâs just life stuff. Is that too controlling? It definitely feels too controlling.â
âMaybe you should avoid giving me dates and locations that your secret identity can be traced to?â
âI mean,â Juniper says, âthey know about all this-â he gestures to his costume and his plants that have burst through the asphalt â-but I just donât have time to walk them through all the responsibilities the mask gives me.â
You look at the sky, wishing his vines would just drag you through the asphalt and out of this situation. You had enough teenage angst in your youth and, at the age of 26, youâre really not looking for more.
Juniper sighs, sagging further into his plants. âAnd even if I did explain, they wouldnât be able to understand.â
Oh for fuckâs sake, itâs like listening to a more positive and less evil mini-you.
Without meaning to, you say, âHow would you know they wonât understand if you donât explain it?â
Juniper shakes his head, frowning as his eyes finally focus on you. âWhat?â
Youâre not going anywhere fast so, if heâs so intent on telling you all this, this might as well happen.
You scan the briefing documents as your team leader, Mr. Subterranean, drones on. As usual, the pack of graphs and statistics look impressive. As usual, you seem to be the only one at the table who knows theyâre wrong. Or, maybe, cares that theyâre wrong.
âCrime is down in the 52nd ward by 30% as compared to 2016âŠâ
You take the chance to glance at the nerd. Heâs listening to Mr. Subterranean as attentively as you did when you first joined this team of the Hero Force. His hands are folded very nicely on the table and heâs watching Mr. Subterranean lie through his teeth with a very polite look on his face. His thick, coke bottle glasses sitting neatly on top of his black mask hide his eyes, but you bet heâs the only one at the table not daydreaming while the leader talks. He strikes you as a teacherâs pet.
Teacherâs pet glances at you through his peripherals. His mouth twitches, revealing a deep dimple, and then he refocuses on Mr. Subterranean. A chill races down your spine.
Youâre not sure why you think he knows, but youâve got animal instincts. If your brain is screeching at you that your plan is in jeopardy, it is.
What are you going to do about it?
âWe can see marked improvement in commerce in Old Downtown thanks to the consideration and dedication shown by our new patrol routesâŠâ
Because youâre watching the new guy, youâre the first one to notice when he raises his hand.
The heroes around the table go still. Youâre a small team compared to some others, only five members in total including the leader, but heroes always seem bigger than they are. When all of you start staring at him, it has to feel like a hundred people are. The nerdy guy only sits there with a pleasant, mild smile on his face, one hand raised and the other resting calmly on the table.
âYesâŠ?â Mr. Subterranean sounds like heâs been asked to improvise after only ever reading off script. He frowns. âDid you have a question, Star Lad?â
See, this is why you donât remember his hero name. Star Lad? Nerdy guy is infinitely better than anything with Lad in it.
âMore of an observation,â Star Lad says.Â
Mr. Subterranean blinks owlishly at him. âAbout what? The crime percentages? The patrols? If itâs not about either of those things, Iâm afraid Iâll have to ask you to wait until the end of the presentation. As you can see from the pages in front of you, we have a very full schedule today. I donât want to waste anyoneâs time.â
You look down at the fabricated graph in front of you so he canât see your face. Waste anyoneâs time? Thatâs all he does.Â
Thatâs why youâre going rogue.
You barely feel any remorse about it anymore, which is why you know tonight is the night you run away from all this. Youâre all set up to siphon the entirety of Mr. Subteranneanâs accounts into yours. You imagine that getting started as a vigilante will be pretty expensive. Itâs only right that Mr. Subterranean, the reason for your sudden career change, pays for it.
Your instincts tell you that youâre being watched. When you look up, you meet Star Ladâs grey eyes. To your horror, he winks once before turning his attention back to Mr. Subterranean.
Oh, you think faintly, he definitely knows.
âIâll be brief,â Star Lad says, eyes sliding from you to Angel at your side and then around to Flower Power. Could he have been looking around the table for reactions? You doubt it.
Mr. Subterranean inclines his head.
âWhen I first joined the team,â Star Lad says, âI was impressed. Iâll admit to some hero worship! To fight alongside Angel and Flower Power and Mr. Subterranean!â He starts to say something else and then quickly adds your name to list. âAnd the Shark, of course.â
Of course. Nobody finds your powers particularly impressive. Yes, youâve got super strength and night vision and the ability to breathe underwater, yes, youâre able to grow fins and swim so fast, but nobody really remembers that when youâre stationed five hundred miles away from the ocean. Plus your insistence on being the Shark rather than Shark Person or whatever it was the Hero Force really wanted you to switch to basically means youâre persona non grata at HQ. About once a month, a Hero Force agent calls to beg you to change your name. Youâve never heard from the same agent twice.
âYes, we remember your introduction,â Mr. Subterranean says. Heâs visibly annoyed now, the wood table under his hands turning moist from his subterranean powers. âMoving onâ â
âThen I was impressed by a meeting like this.â Star Lad beams at Mr. Subterranean as if he didnât hear the leader speak. âDid you know no other team lead takes the time to collect data like this? To analyze their every action from fights to patrols? Other teams rely heavily on Hero Force analysts for that information. Youâve saved the Hero Force a pretty penny by insisting on doing the analyses yourself.â
âWell,â Mr. Subterranean say. He clears his throat and shuffles his papers. You bet thereâd be a blush on his cheeks if you could see under his scuba-like mask. âItâs nice of you to notice. I spend a lot of time on these.â
âIn fact,â Star Lad says, leaning forward, âyouâve saved Hero Force so much time and money, people canât believe it! I mean, literallyââ his smile drops ââcanât believe it.â
Angel stops playing her mobile game, slowly lowering her phone to the table. Flower Power frowns and takes a closer look at her meeting papers.
Oh shit, you think. You knew Star Lad was here to bust someone. You just didnât think itâd be the boss.
Mr. Subterranean either doesnât get the insinuation or is a better actor than you thought. He nods. âYes, yes, Iâve heard the same from the head of the Hero Force himself. But I donât do it for praise. I do it because itâs the right thing to do.â
âIs that why youâve refused to be audited?â Star Lad asks. Heâs definitely not smiling now. In fact he looks very different from the nerdy newbie who got so excited to join the team. He looks like a Hero. âAnd why you cancelled your annual review?â
âA review would distract us from important work,â Mr. Subterranean says. He squares his shoulders, trying to look bigger, and waves as if to knock Star Ladâs question out of the air like a particularly annoying fly. âI send very clear records every month to Hero Force. Itâd be a waste for an agent to do all that work again so I deemed an audit unnecessary.â He flips a page in his packet. âNow, as I was saying, while weâve enjoyed immense progress in district 14, ward 8 needsââ
Star Lad half laughs, interrupting Mr. Subterranean. He looks around the table with his hands splayed in front of him. âYou guys got it, right? I didnât think I was being that delicate.â
âNo, I got it,â Angel says. She looks like sheâs going to throw up. Even her halo looks a little green as her light-based powers respond to her emotions. She shakes her head as if to clear it. âBoss, you refused an audit? Thatâs not how Hero Force audits work!â
âI donât think thatâs how any audits work,â Star Lad says generously. He flips his hands over in a sort of shrug motion. âItâs pretty common knowledge that you canât just cancel an audit.â
Mr. Subterranean tries to meet each of your teamâs eyes in turn to convey his honesty. When he meets yours, he grimaces. You can feel how your pupils have completely overtaken your irises as you watch him. He tries, âIt wasnât necessaryââ
âI donât have anything to do with this,â Flower Power tells Star Lad. Sheâs not like you and Angel, both heroes in your first year. Sheâs older, nearly 65 in an industry that kills people before theyâre 30, and you know she only accepted this position as a form of semi-retirement. Any wrongdoing endangers her pension. âI swear.â
âYouâve all heard my analyses of the city,â Mr. Subterranean says. The wetness from his palms is spreading across the table like fungus. He casually leans forward to brace his forearms on the table, hiding the stains. âIâm sorry that I didnât understand what an audit is, but the correct information has always made its way toââ
âMr. Subterranean,â Star Lad interrupts, âdid you really think the Hero Force wouldnât be able to recognize a fraudulent report?â
Mr. Subterranean looks at him. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. âTheyâre notââ
âYour city doesnât have a district 14,â Star Lad says. He taps the report. âYour city isnât big enough to have multiple districts. And crime is not down. Itâs up, actually. Itâs very, very up.â
Mr. Subterranean stutters. âI guarantee that that is not the case. We have fewer super-powered villains here than there have been in a decade!â
âThatâs not true,â Star Lad says. He turns to Angel. âLetâs ask your team. How many villains, on average, do you think a town this size should have?â
Angelâs clear green eyes dart to you and then away. âUmâŠfour?â Whatever she reads on Star Ladâs face makes her flinch. âSix?â
You are very still. You and Angel are both new. Neither of you know the answer to Star Ladâs question, but you should. Flower Power and Mr. Subterranean should have told you. Youâre getting the sense of blood in the water. Thankfully, itâs not your blood. When Star Lad looks at you, you have your answer ready. âWe currently have five active, regular villains in town.â
âMr. Subterranean, you reported two.â Star Lad flips his hand and a red file appears in front of him out of thin air. Emblazoned across it is the word CONFIDENTIAL. âI was sent here to verify your, frankly, ridiculous claims. I was expecting some fudging of the numbers or even a few battle exaggerations to make your mediocre leadership look more impressive than it is.â
You have to resist the urge to bite your cheek in an effort to keep a straight face. Youâre transformed right now and even you arenât invulnerable to the razor-sharp shark teeth.
âHeâs been a competent leader,â Flower Power says. When Angel and you make sounds of disbelief, her mouth presses into a thin line. âTrust me, Iâve seen worse. I would have reported anything too extreme to the Hero Force.â
âWhich is why, as of today, you are retired, Flower Power,â Star Lad says without taking his eyes off Mr. Subterranean. The room is getting suspiciously moist as your team leaderâs composure cracks. âYouâre excused.â
âWhat?â Flower Power shoots to her feet. âYou canât fire me because of a difference in opinionââ
âYou are being retired,â Star Lad says quietly but firmly. He meets Flower Powerâs eyes evenly. âOut of respect for your long career with the Hero Force, I am not going to go into the nuances of that decision in front of your team. If you would like access to the report that led to that decision, you are welcome to request it from the nearest Hero Force Main Chapter.â
âI will,â Flower Power says, chin raised. Whether she senses the losing battle as well as you or not, you donât know. She turns on her heel and stalks from the room leaving the scent of roses in her wake.
You whistle under your breath.
âWhere was I?â Star Lad takes the file out of the air and flips through it. âRight. I expected a lot of things when I began my investigation. I did not expect you to beââ
âSo youâre a spy,â Mr. Subterranean says. He stands, bracing both hands on the table. âI should have known you werenât one of us. From the moment you arrivedââ
âI am an auditor,â Star Lad interrupts loudly. âWhich I have made abundantly clear at this point, yes?â
âYep,â Angel says. She shrinks back when Star Lad grins at her and Mr. Subterranean glares. You lean around her so you can meet Mr. Subterraneanâs eyes. He glares at you for of all a second and then his eyes dart away.
Ha.Â
âYou didnât announce yourself,â Mr. Subterranean says. The fungus - part of his power - is swirling across the table now, decaying the wood. On concrete, it makes the footing slippery. Good for stopping villains. In this room, it reeks. âYou came onto my team with false pretenses. Iâll be filing a complaint with Hero Force.â
Star Lad is not impressed. He takes off his glasses with one hand and then folds them deliberately, setting them on the table in front of him. Heâs still smiling. âYou are, of course, welcome to do that, Mr. Subterranean. You will have ample time while awaiting your trial.â
Mr. Subterranean freezes. His suit - a pair of grey coveralls, like a miner - starts lookingâŠmoist around the collar. âTrial?â
Star Lad nods. âYouâre under arrest,â he says. âIf youâd quit interrupting me, I can finish reading your charges.â
Star Lad doesnât sound like Star Lad anymore. Star Lad is the goofy newcomer who asks stupid questions and is always underfoot. Star Lad doesnât know what to do with his big, gangly body and whose costume is always ill-fitting. Star Lad canât sit as still as a predator, his grey eyes fixed to Mr. Subterranean as if considering whether or not he can swallow the other man whole. His voice isnât dark with menace and his aura isnât quite so furious.
Mr. Subterranean takes a half-step back and then stops himself. He swallows, hard. âI donât have any charges,â Mr. Subterranean says with false bravado. âBut you will when I report you for threatening a team leader.â
âOkay,â Star Lad says and stands up.
You and Angel lean back. Mr. Subterranean is braced over the head of the table, trying to look as big as possible, but Star Lad fills up the room when he stands. Heâs shorter than Mr. Subterranean but broader and a lot more confident. Both you and Angel are at the opposite end of the room, but it feels way too close. Angel nudges your foot with hers. When she gets your attention, she deliberately looks at your hands, shakes her head, and then looks away.
Your nails - as sharp as sharkâs teeth - are piercing the softening wood of the table. Carefully you pry them out. You stare at the grooves, your heart rate slowing and slowing as your fight or flight instincts war.
âYou are under arrest,â Star Lad says, each word like a bit. âFor falsifying mission reports, misleading critical Hero Force personnel and endangering rookieââ
Mr. Subterranean sneezes. It sounds like a kittenâs sneeze. He sneezes again and there are visible particles in it. After a moment, the droplets from the sneeze dissipate into the humid air and Mr. Subterranean wipes his nose.
You and Angel lean back further from him. Angel covers her nose with her long sleeve. Your costume is sleeveless so you donât have that luxury.
Star Lad isnât so squeamish. âBless you.â He continues, âYou are under suspicion of aiding and abetting various villainous elements in this city to further your public image asââ
Mr. Subterranean sneezes again.
You are very curious about that suspicion, but you donât get to hear the rest of it. Star Lad blinks once, twice, three times. He presses a hand to his head.
âYou areâ you are under suspicionââ He sinks back down into his seat. âU-underââ He presses his other hand to his temple so heâs cradling his head. âWh-what is happening to me?â
At your side, Angel is slumping down in her seat. Her breath hitches before smoothing into deep and even repetitions. Like sleep. But when you look at her face, sheâs not sleeping. Her light-based powers undulate with sick fear, casting the room in shades of green and grey. Sheâs staring wide-eyed and horrified right at Mr. Subterranean.
Mr. Subterranean is smiling.
Youâve always found his smile unpleasant, though youâve never been sure why. His teeth are a little crooked, sure, but so are yours (having four sets at all times will do that). His lips are thin but not nonexistent and his smiles always reach his eyes. That actually might be the problem.
Thereâs a feverish light in Mr. Subterraneanâs eyes as he stands fully upright. He looms over Star Lad. The fungus creeps from the table and curls across the floor until even the walls are mildewing. âThink youâre clever do you?â
Oh my god, you think, my boss is a villain. You take care to stay slumped in your seat. There was something in Mr. Subterraneanâs sneeze. Some sort of fungus thatâs caused Star Lad and Angel to lose strength. You flex your fingers under the table, mouth dry as you wait for a similar effect to hit you.
âOne thing I learned from Hero Force; donât tell anyone everything,â Mr. Subterranean says. He drags a finger across the back of Star Ladâs chair and it creaks as rot eats away the varnish. âItâs why we have civilian identities, isnât it? So that weâre protected. Safe. Able to do our jobs. I left out a few of my powerâs affects when I filled out my Hero Force application.â His smile sharpens. âSo that I can do my job.â
Star Lad is doing a wonderful job of not panicking. A muscle in his jaw flexes as he fights Mr. Subterraneanâs fungus. He shifts in his seat, wiggling so that he can lean his head against the least rotten part of the chair back. âLying on a Hero Force application,â he says through gritted teeth, âis a crime.â
âWho are you to decide that?â Mr. Subterranean says. He stalks around the table in agitation, eyes barely landing on you and Angel before heâs fixed right back on Star Lad. âI keep this city safe. I do. The crime percentages are wrong, so what? The number of villains is wrong, so what? Iâm here. I lead my team. We fight and we win. So whatâs the problem?â
âI am an auditor,â Star Lad says. He pants and then squeezes his eyes shut as if in pain. You see a tremor roll through him. âY-you canât do what you want.â
âBut I can,â Mr. Subterranean says. He spreads his arms to show that the suit underneath his arms is very damp indeed. Drips of spore-laden moisture drip onto the ground. âI file my reports. I do my patrols. You said it yourself - you had no idea the lengths to which Iâve gone until you saw my presentation! When Hero Force asks me where you went, I just have to say you lead my team on a training exercise and none of you came back.â
âS-Sir,â Angel says. Sheâs not doing as well as Star Lad. Her breathing is becoming more and more labored. âW-why?â
Mr. Subterranean clicks his tongue. âSorry, rookie. Bad luck, I guess.âÂ
Angel whimpers.
Star Ladâs groans, back arching as he fights with all his might. His power flickers like falling stars all around him, but it doesnât do anything. Wherever it flashes, it illuminates Mr. Subterraneanâs particulates and whatever spore that has incapacitated the auditor.
A spore that, apparently, has no effect on you.
Mr. Subterranean steps towards Angel. His eyes flash as he stretches a hand out toward her, an ominous black fungus rising through the skin of his palm. âIâm sorry, but I can and will do more good for this city than you ever willââ
Angelâs light slips into a despairing blue.
You lunge over the table.
Maybe it wouldâve been more hero-like to match Mr. Subterranean monologue for monologue. Maybe you shouldâve warned him before you threw all 200 pounds of on top of him, teeth first. Maybe you shouldâve done a lot of things, but you didnât and by the time you think of any of it, Mr. Subterraneanâs head hits the opposite wall with a sickening smack!
âS-shark?â He stutters. His hands paw at your wrist where youâre holding his neck.
âThe Shark,â you hiss through your growing teeth. Little drops of blood well up under the points of your nails where youâre using just a little too much strength. âTraining accident? Thatâs the best you can come up with?â
Mr. Subterranean sneezes in your face. Itâs disgusting and gross, but it doesnât do anything.
âSharks,â you tell him, âare immune to poison.â
âNo, they arenât,â he gasps.
You shake him like a rag doll. âIf I say they are, they are.â You glance over your shoulder. âYo, auditor. Am I allowed to arrest my team leader? I donât think Iâm a full Hero yet.â
Star Lad is slumped over in his chair. It takes him two tries to speak. âIâI deputize you to do so.â
âGreat,â you say. You manhandle your team leader. He makes all sorts of interesting sounds when he tries to fight only to come up against your super strength. Somehow heroes always forget about your super strength. âI knew you were sketchy. This brings me incredible pleasure, sir.â
âFuck you,â Mr. Subterranean spits.
There are a pair of power-suppression cuffs hanging from Mr. Subterraneanâs utility belt. You grab them and click them on both of his wrists. They activate, flaring neon blue and Mr. Subterranean screams. As a physical power type, suppressing his powers is painful. You watch with interest as the mildew on the walls fades as he loses consciousness.
âDoes this mean the mold lives inside him?â You let Mr. Subterranean fall to the ground. âOr is it a fungus?â
Star Lad coughs, sucking in a deep breath for the first time since he collapsed. He rubs at his throat. âHow would I know that? He lied on his Hero Force Application form.â
The light in the room changes again to soemthing soft and pink as Angel calms down. She wraps her arms around herself. âOh my god, are we his accomplices? I swear, I didnât know anything aboutââ
âAs rookies, neither of you bear any responsibility in Mr. Subterraneanâs actions,â Star Lad says. He stands gingerly, testing his legs. âUnless either of you helped him hide villains from visiting heroes in order to defeat them himself at a later date?â
âWhat the fuck,â you say.
Angel presses a hand to her mouth. âWait, I thought he had a second apartment for a mistress, not villains!â
âCouldâve been both,â you say. You watch Star Lad bring his mysterious sorcerer-like power to his hand and then dismiss it. âSo what happens now?â
âI take Mr. Subterranean in,â Star Lad says promptly. He rolls his shoulders. âBoth of you go home and wait for Hero Force to contact you. I assume youâll be reassigned.â He eyes you. âYouâll probably go to San Francisco. Why didnât you tell anyone youâre a shark transformer?â
You throw your hands up in the air. âI call myself the Shark!â
âEveryone in HQ thinks youâre being dramatic when you call yourself that,â Star Lad says. âYou wrote superstrength and amazing teeth on your Hero Force Application.â
You bare all of your amazing shark teeth at him. âWhich is true.â
He stares at you. ââŠright.â He sets about collecting Mr. Subterranean. His powers wrap around the other manâs arms and legs, lifting him into the air like a dead cow. âYou both have options. Luckily we sorted those whole thing before either of you went rogue.â
âWhaaaat,â Angel says. Her halo shifts to a panicked orange color. âThatâs craaaazy, I would never go rogue.â
âYeah,â you say, bracing your hands on your hips. âWhat she said. Obviously.â
Star Lad shakes his head. âRight. Well, keep your noses clean. Weâll be in touch.â
He leaves the room, dragging Mr. Subterranean behind him. Both of you breathe a sigh of relief when the door closes.
âYou were going to ditch too?â Angel asks.
âBig time,â you say. You fish your phone out of your pocket and show her the program you were going to use to drain Mr. Subterraneanâs accounts. âI was going to rob our illustrious team leader first though.â
Angel pulls a pair of spark plugs out of her back pocket. âThese are from his car.â
âSo he couldnât chase you?â You ask, impressed.
Angel looks at you like youâre crazy and pockets the spark plugs. âI can fly. He couldnât chase me. I just wanted to ruin his day.â
You laugh. You didnât know Angel was so funny. You sling an arm around her shoulders. âLetâs go get a drink, Angel. We can write a letter to Star Lad asking to be reassigned together.â
Angel wrinkles her nose but allows herself to be led from the room. âStar Lad. What a stupid name.â
Youâre delighted. âRight?!â
You go to get drinks.
----------------------.
 thanks for reading! A bit of a long one but I had so much fun writing it!
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Suggestion: The dragonâs definition of âstealâ is somewhat loose. It still allows the coin to be used and bartered and change handsâbut on one condition: the dragon must be with it at all times.
They become a familiar sight in the marketplace.
âHereâs your change, ma'am. One gold piece.â The merchant holds out a palm, on top of which rests a tiny, brilliantly colored creature clutching a single gold coin.
âThatâs a dragon,â you say dumbly. âOne piece⊠and a dragon.â
âYes.â
You cautiously reach out and attempt to take your change. You tug. It holds. You tug harder. The dragon lets loose a tiny, protective growl.
âMa'amâno, ma'am, you have to take the dragon, too.â
âSorry?â
The seller notes your dubious expression. âNot from around here, are ya?â They shrug. âThemâs the rules. Take the coin, take the dragon.â
They wait expectantly. Wondering how the world has so suddenly gone mad, you slowly, slowly hold out your hand.
The dragon perks right up. It scampers from their palm to yours with the coin clamped in its jaws and scales your sleeve with sharp little claws.
âHave a nice day, ma'am,â the merchant says. âSpend him soon, now, you hear? At another booth, if you can. He likes to travel.â
From its perch upon your shoulder, the dragon lets out a happy trill.
Bonus: the coin eventually passes to the rogue in a group of travelling adventurers. The dragon becomes the mascot of the entire group, and they lay out a small pile of coins for him to sleep on every night, clutching his coin like a teddy bear.
