How to be Megnificent – book 2 of girldragongizzard

When the woman stands behind Harold, peering over his shoulder from the inside of the camper, she freezes too.

I find myself doing the transfixion dance, of course. It’s part of keeping them still and compliant with my instinctual wishes to kill and eat them. But, I don’t actually want to do that, and my alternative urge is to flee. Which I also don’t want to do.

Instead, I visualize the outcome I want and, while focusing on Harold’s eyes, I settle myself down into a loaf, tucking claws underneath me, and folding my wings up tight. And then, ever so slowly, I do a cat smile, closing my eyes gradually and relaxing my frame.

And, just as I’d hoped, it’s the woman’s eye contact that is broken first, and she says, somewhat shakily but not truly stirred, “Harold, put that damn thing away! You’ll shoot your fellow camper!”

Through heavily hooded lids, I see him lower the gun slowly and blink at me. I’m obviously not a threat, after all. At which point, I turn my head to the side so that I’m looking at him with only one eye, a prey expression. Very much not a threat.

He tentatively steps down and out of the doorway of the camper, letting his gun drop fully to a one handed grip aimed down, while he steadies himself on the door with his other hand. And then he says, “I could swear I heard it talk, Ginnie.”

Ginnie slaps him lightly on the back of his head, and says, “Of course she can talk, Harold! Don’t you know the girl dragons can talk?”

I have no idea where she heard that. That’s not remotely true. From a certain, bioessentialist perspective, we’re probably all girl dragons (except we’ve got the genders, if Joel and I are indications), and I’m the only one I know that can imitate words, so far. And I can’t even reliably imitate the ones I want when I’m flustered.

But I can talk with AAC, if I have that. Which I don’t.

I turn my head the other way, and tilt it to the side, as an inquisitive expression about her statement, but that also fortuitously causes my radio tag to swing from its piercing through my horn.

“Land’s end!” Ginnie exclaims, stepping down from the camper. “Who did that to you? Why –” and as she gets closer to me she apparently gets a better look at me, because she exclaims, “Oh! It’s you!” She points at me and turns to her husband, “Harold, that’s Meghan! From Fairport! We’ve only been staring at her photos all day! She’s talked to the Mayor!” Turning back to me, she demands, “What in Heaven’s name are you doing all the way out here?”

How the heck do I answer that? The best phrase I can come up with, pieced together in two different voices, one of an AI generated posh British lady that I consider my voice now, and the other being Caleb, with enough of a pause between the two words to make it more confusing, is, “No. Shit.”

Then, to emphasize what I care about, I use my left wing claw to scratch at the radio tag in hopefully obvious irritation and impatience.

“Hold on,” Harold says. “I’ll get that off of you. That’s not standard, in any case.” His gruff, nasally voice fades and is interrupted by heavier breathing as he climbs back into the camper, but he keeps talking, “I wager the government did that to you, didn’t they? That’s no Green Peace collar or whatever. And drilling through your horn like that. That’s not ecological. Can’t have that. I think we can patch that with Bondo, which I definitely have!”

Ginnie smiles as he’s doing this.

The man has industrial grade bolt cutters, Bondo, and a metal grout spatula in that camper.

And they agree to let me sleep on the roof.

They also offer me food that I don’t need to eat.

And then, as I’m having trouble falling asleep, I overhear them arguing with each other about both Presidential Candidates and how they did during the debate, and how they won’t vote for either of them, and I feel conflicted.

Not that I blame anybody for being jaded and cynical about both parties. Just that, in this case, the debate was about the issue of us dragons, and the Candidates came down squarely on either side of it. And I don’t like what Harold and Ginnie’s argument implied about what they think should be done with me.

They’ve treated me with more hospitality than I expected from anybody. Once the gun was put away.

But, at the same time, they’ve forgotten that I’m legally a citizen, and they don’t seem to care about whatever my rights are.

They talk about us dragons like we’re animals that need to be respected and protected, but also not exactly people.

It’s unsettling.

At home, in and around my coffee shop, I’m a person. Because I’m a person.

These two may be from Fairport, or the neighboring city of Jam, and I’m wagering they’re either basic boomer liberals or recently-ex-conservatives, but they’re not my people.

I’m awoken in twilight by the whining scream and shuddering thud of that fucking helicopter flying overhead, and I don’t feel all that loyal to Harold and Ginny such that I want to bother saying goodbye in a way that I can’t even articulate.

I’m pretty sure the camper rocks and shakes as I leap off of it to take to the air after that chopper.

It’s fast, and I’m not as fast, but I can definitely follow it. And I know it’s gotta be landing for more than a few minutes temporarily, because it’s headed right back out where I came from, and it’s not circling me.

It’s not tracking me, especially as I dropped the tracker into the lake. It’s probably got another Fairport dragon tucked away in its hold, tranqued and tagged, and headed for release into the wild. Such as the wild exists anymore.

Getting any kind of altitude without the sun up is such a drag and a chore. But I’ve got a gizzard working on an owl now, which it’s been doing all night, and I don’t feel all that weak and hungry. A little sluggish, at first, but my body gets the idea as I push it.

I end up having to weave between mountains for a bit, before I’m high enough to go over the passes, and then the peaks. And I almost lose track of the helicopter.

But once I’m high enough, its running lights catch my eyes and I zero in on it.

In the light of the rising sun, it’s setting down on the same mountain where it deposited me the night before. They doubtlessly know I’m not there anymore, and have decided it’s the easiest place for them to land.

And as I work my way closer and closer, I can see them, in the distance, dragging a large bundle from inside the machine as its blades are winding down to a slow spin and then stop.

I’m right.

They’re disposing of another dragon.

It’s literally legally kidnapping. They are choosing kidnapping over murder, for some reason, maybe because they think they can get away with it. But it is kidnapping.

And I wonder if the tracking is to make it look more legitimate somehow. But also, it’s definitely to know where we are and to make sure we’re still out here for as long as the trackers work.

My long range eyesight is really sharp, but even now I can’t really make out the details of who they’ve got trussed up. But I’m convinced I’m seeing Joel. A.K.A. Whitman. My nemesis. Whom I have a truce with, and to whom I conceded two thirds of my territory back home.

If it is indeed Thursday morning, as I believe was confirmed by an offhand comment by Ginnie last night, then Joel has had that territory for two whole days. And now he’s going to be stuck out here, with me.

I’m more angry for him than worried about what he thinks of me right now. And I decide right there and then that I’m not letting the chopper take to the air. I’m going to render it unflightworthy.

Because if I let that thing go back to Fairport, it’s just going to come out here with another dragon, and another, and another, and another, tearing people like me away from their homes and their families. And not only is that not right, but it’s undoing all the work I’ve spent the last week building myself.

Joel and I could be networking with other dragons online right now, developing stronger truces and agreements, and coordinating to turn around and help our humans achieve what they want to achieve, whatever that might be, somehow.

But no, we’ve got some trumped up, pseudo-liberal, eco-performative land owning billionaire Daniel Säure, I think, using one of his companies to “humanely” purge Independent County of its dragons.

And if I let them take another dragon, it might be Astraia, who can’t fly. Getting her back home will be hard.

I’m idly wondering how they plan on attaching Joel’s radio tag to him as I dive toward the helicopter. I should probably be thinking about how I’m going to disable the machine, but I think I’m going to start by relying on my fire.

After hitting Joel with it twice, I think I’ve stopped using it directly on living beings. Even though I have to wait quite a while before I can use it again. It’s my wave motion gun. I have to be careful and responsible with it, lest I do the unconscionable or also leave myself too vulnerable.

It’s a terrible burden. A terrible napalm burden.

It’s not like I’m actually as powerful as Godzilla, or anything like that. These things scale both up and down.

Down, mostly, in my case.

But I’m thinking that the complex workings of the swash plate and nearby air intakes are vulnerable to liquid fire. So, if I can belch up a whole stream of it to all land right there, that should make it unsafe or even impossible for the machine to take off.

The trick is to pull up fast enough to prevent myself from slamming into the helicopter myself.

Which.

Nope.

I was thinking too much about Joel’s radio tracker to time it right, and the morning air is still too cold to provide a useful thermal on the shadowy side of the mountain.

I at least manage to extend my feet and swerve enough to make a humorous attempt at landing on a rotor blade. Which is a great way to disable a helicopter!

Rifles get fired in my direction as I crash to the ground clutching my groaning and shrieking helicopter part, but the tranq darts hit the chopper and shatter instead. Fired in desperation, they went wide, or flew through a spot I’d already left.

I pull my wings in tight and hit the ground, rolling like a tipped cow and letting go of my newest prized possession. My tail whips and lashes, and I’m climbing to my feet injured far, far less than I expected to be.

Joel did something like this when he crashed through the brick outer wall of my apartment to attack me a week and a half ago.

We dragons are not quite normal. It’s like we operate by movie physics or something.

We’re still fairly vulnerable to each other, though. I have stitches from when a dragon I nicknamed Waits scraped my left shoulder mid flight with their beak. And Joel has burns along his back and all over his mouth and face from the two times when he got too close to my biggest front hole.

A dragon named Astraia has some really gnarly gashes on her shoulders from a dragon I nicknamed Loreena, and I haven’t seen Loreena yet, but I’m sure they’re hurting pretty bad, too.

We can also be pierced by tranq darts, and I’m guessing that bullets penetrate our hides pretty readily, too. Traditionally, mythologically, most dragons don’t do all that well against pointy things.

But, blunt impact? It definitely hurt a bit and rattled me, but I feel like a Super Ball. I’ve bounced right back up, growling.

Humans scatter, but the other dragon remains limp. It’s Joel all right. He’s probably still very drugged.

He doesn’t look quite as burned as I expected.

I’ll consider that later.

Glancing around, I take stock.

There’s a definite high ground and low ground here, a slope to the mountain with the helicopter parked on the most level place, and very sparse trees. But there’s no apparent military training nor space monk here to take advantage of the terrain. These people are truly panicked and scattered. Probably also despairing over their maimed whirly bird.

Guessing the dart rifles have to be loaded again before firing, I galumph a bit like a giant ferret over to Joel and grab the webbing that binds him and tear at it with claws and teeth as I barrel over him and tumble and roll and bound back up to run further away before turning around.

Mostly, I jostle him enough that he stirs.

My next move is to pick an agent that looks like they’re about to pull their gun up and fire at me, and charge them.

The way they panic just before I lock eye contact with them makes me think they’ve been warned about that, but that panic doesn’t save them from getting transfixed and then tackled.

Other guns fire.

My personal challenge is to not tear this person’s throat out and just keep running over them without puncturing them, either. I don’t think I’ve been hit by anything, but the possibility of it has me anxious enough that I’m having an even harder time reigning in my violent impulses.

If this was winter, I could probably look back and see blood in the snow, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t do anything immediately lethal.

I turn and wheel at the others as they fumble to reload weapons, and I start to growl my challenge cry. I’ve already picked my next target.

That target freaks out so much that they drop their gun by accident, reaching after it briefly with both hands, but looking up at me to make sure I’m not about to eviscerate and eat them.

My low, infrasonic rumble rises steadily in pitch, hitting weird harmonics in things like rocks and bones that causes pebbles to vibrate and humans to blanche. And then, just as it can be heard, instead of continuing to my usual morning routine, I cut it off with a spoken word, “Stop.”

Everyone freezes.

It’s so gratifying to have their attention like this.

I stomp my foot, taking a step forward, and glance to the North. I know there’s a trail that way, because I saw it from the air. It might take them a couple of days to hike out of here, but if they can find water, they should be fine.

“Go,” I say. I wish I could make it forceful, but I only learned how to say it like an emotionless computer illegally imitating Angelina Joli’s voice.

It is enough, however.

These “Wildlife Management” agents are clearly rattled by their helicopter being disabled by a plummeting fire breathing dragon who can endure a crash landing, dodge their darts, and talk, while also worrying the half trussed other dragon that they’d kidnapped who is now stirring. Being armed with rifles that need to be reloaded isn’t helping the situation. They weren’t equipped for my attack.

There are seven humans standing, and one bleeding one being helped to their feet. I watch carefully, tense, twitchy, as they collect themselves and move off in the direction I’d indicated. Still carrying their guns.

“Stop,” I say. “No. Okay.” That was uncharacteristically cogent of me. But how do I tell them to drop their weapons?

They’re watching me.

Ah, there’s two guns on the ground, dropped by the person I attacked and the one I threatened. I go over to one, pick it up and then drop it, looking at them as meaningfully as I can.

The two remaining armed individuals drop their guns, too, and back off.

“Peace,” I say. Then, “Go.”

They go.

While waiting for Joel to rouse himself, I gather the guns one by one, picking them up in my mouth, and delivering them to the burning helicopter, heaping them just inside the open sliding side hatch.

The agents can dare to come back to their chopper once we’ve left. I don’t care.

I do also quickly search the interior of the helicopter for anything like a phone or a tablet I could commandeer for my own purposes, but it’s as futile an effort as I suspected it would be. I just have to try in order to know I haven’t passed up the chance. I pause at the radio, wondering if I could use it to contact anyone meaningful to me, but I can’t think of how.

Besides, if we can get Joel some food, we can probably both fly out of here just fine. I think. I found and got to Ross lake in less than a day. We can follow a road out, or the river, if Joel can’t make it over the mountains like I can.

I decide to leave the radio and battery functional, so that the people I’m going to leave stranded here can call for help. It’s probably a bad idea, because they could also let whomever is in charge of them know that I’ve freed Joel and am on the rampage. But, while they might not have ethics that I like, I do. I really do. I’m trying to, at least.

But I fucking wreck everything else I can about the chopper, even slashing its tires. In the process, I learn just what I can bite through with my jaws. It’s pretty impressive.

When I’m done, there are no rotor blades left operable and any cable I can reach is severed. Panels and bits are strewn all over the mountain side.