Charles awoke with a gasp. Where was he? He couldn't see anything.

He tried to suck in a breath, only for cloth to get into his mouth. No wonder he couldn't see anything; he had a sack covering his head! 

Charles tried to move, only to come up against his restraints. His right arm throbbed, the agony preventing him from moving his arms too much. His hands were also tied, he realized as his feet kicked against the side of something. An immovable structure ensconced him on both sides. One, soft and pliable with a rigid skeleton. The other, cold metal. 

The rumbling beneath him was telling. They had put him in their SUV. Knocked him out with the butt of an assault rifle and promptly disarmed him. Stripped him of anything useful… though they weren't so thorough, Charles realized, feeling the comforting weight of his Coldsteel folding knife, sitting behind his wallet.

" Pinche pendejo's awake," someone muttered. His voice was slightly muffled, as though it had come from behind the tall wall to his left. He was in the back of the SUV. There weren't any separate compartments for cargo in a vehicle like this.

Knowing they could hear him breathed some life into Charles' courage. " ¡Chingada madre!" He yelled. "Release me at once!" He kicked the side of the vehicle and let the metal clang in their ears. "Do you capullos even know who I am?" Another kick. "If you don't set me free this instant, Pops—my father will take action and there's no way in fucking hell he'll take this lying down!"

None of his kidnappers bothered replying. God the Father, he didn't know if they lost their balls from his threats or if they were so deadened that his provocations were useless. 

Charles had to try again. "Any gilipollas can figure out you're all NHA! My family didn't get to where we are now from nothing! You have no idea how far our connections go. Father will easily—easily!—find out who you are. He'll go after your families!" He kicked the SUV again.

"Kidnap them!" Another kick. "Have them saved by God!" Surely they must be losing their marbles right now, thought Charles as he gave the SUV one more kick. "Gun 'em down like stray dogs and mail their body parts to the shitholes you all—

A loud, feral growl interrupted him. His swelling bravado deflated in an instant, replaced with a primal fear. Charles gasped as a thud multiples times larger, fiercer, and more solid than anything he could've made with his own shoes reverberated from the left, penetrating what was so obviously the back seat.

"Annoying," someone growled in broken Spanish. The voice was husky. So deep and guttural that Charles found it difficult to piece the syllables together. He couldn't even discern their gender. "Quiet, that, Forger!"

They used the word herrero—the Spanish word for blacksmith. For someone who worked on metals. For someone who forged them into machinery and equipment, crafting instruments of war and destruction. 

Charles froze as his thoughts settled into place. The stranger used that word as though they were describing Charles the way he would describe a complete stranger, an "other". The anger and condescension embedded within were palpable. 

It was the dragon!

Who else could it have been? It was only the hulking reptile that came to mind. 

Finally, Charles remembered how the communists bested him. A dragon the size of a large horse—bigger if not older than Red—sprung out of the SUV, eluded his first shots, used its tail to disarm him, and finally pinned him with a solid bite on his arm. The fact he still had an arm was fortunate.

The speaker was clearly the same dragon that attacked him in the market. He'd heard it bark a command just before the communists knocked him out, didn't he? It had the same voice, he reckoned.

Yet, faced with this evidence, Charles still couldn't quite believe his ears. Never, not even once, did he believe the dragons could talk—could express emotion—could actually think and speak like the rest of humankind. 

Antonio and Roberto had been speculating about this for months now, if not years, but Charles had always considered it remote. Impossible. Why search for intelligent life among the stars when it could be found right here on Earth?

At best he thought these scaly creatures matched the typical cetacean or hominidae. Animals with somewhat complex sociology ultimately lacking the natural tools—the intelligence—the curiosity—the resourcefulness—to stand at the apex and remain there.

Nobody had ever considered the dragons to be a sapient species, even though it'd been over ten years since their discovery.

This…

This changed everything.

Charles Graham began to tremble, having become aware of what he and his father had been doing this entire time. Had they been torturing people the whole time? Embittering their views of humans over the years? Skewing them towards hate?

"Charles, did you forget?" spoke a voice in his head. It sounded a lot like Pops, with his admonishing and lecturing tone. "Other humans are also trash. They'll take advantage of you when you least expect it and toss you out the instant you outlive your purpose. What makes these lizards any different from a filthy jornalero?"

The van suddenly stopped, tires letting out an ear-splitting screech. "Ah!" Charles gasped as he flew into the backseat. He had struck his head. He'd been battling a particularly nasty wave of dizziness when the hatchback flew open and a pair of hands seized him and raised him upright.

Then a fist suddenly struck him on the face. The sack cloth did nothing to cushion the blow. It felt like a hammer slamming onto the bridge of his nose. "Fuck!" Charles growled as the pain flared up a second after getting hit. Liquid dripped from his nose. Shit, it was bleeding.

The sack suddenly flew off his head. "Think you can threaten us, huh?" muttered the rebel whilst glaring at him. His skin was a deep brown and mottled with scrapes and scars, reminding Charles of muddy ground long violated by commercial activity. 

There was no chance he could escape now. Although the sun was still high up—certainly, it hadn't been more than three hours since his abduction—Charles could no longer see the skyline of Metro Magallanes. He only had a split second to glimpse their surroundings: a two-lane highway traipsing through the jungle hills, curving about like a gray snake.

"We know exactly who you are, Sir Graham," said the rebel, lacing that 'sir' with contempt. Before Charles could speak in response, the rebel spat a loogie on his face.

Charles reflexively shut his eyes, but that didn't stop the sickening feeling of warm saliva splashing on top of it and slowly rolling down the bridge of his nose. " ¡Hostia puta!"

Charles forgot about the dragon sitting behind him in the SUV and focused on the asshole in front of him. "I swear to God, when this is all over I'll—

Another rebel, who'd gotten down to make sure Charles didn't try anything, smashed his face in with the butt of his rusty Kalashnikov. The move interrupted him and worsened his nosebleed. He was dazed, disoriented—his vision blurred. He could also taste his own blood now.

"You and your daddy can't do anything to us, boy!" barked the first rebel. "We're almost at Sierra Morena."

"Fuck you," Charles managed, his fury rendered into a mere whisper.

The rebel turned to his comrade and stretched his hand out towards him. "Manny, your sock."

Showing his acclimation to this graceless task, the other rebel wordlessly set his weapon down, took off a boot, and stripped off the white sock. Charles had just glimpsed the brown dirt and toe prints staining one end when it was shoved into his mouth.

The unbearably fetid taste made Charles gag. He tried to spit out the disgusting thing, only to be backhanded. Lights winked in and out of existence in his vision, his body swaying, unable to stop the man from taking the fabric and shoving it deeper into his mouth.

"Now shut up and go to sleep!" The rebel yelled. He pulled the sack back down over Charles' face, but not before slamming something hard—something with a blunt tip—into the wound on his right arm.

"Mmmmmggghhh!" Charles let out a muffled scream, tears being squeezed from his eyes. 

"Put Forger here," ordered the dragon with its brutalized Spanish. "I gut it when it opens mouth again, and annoys me."

Charles could no longer tell whether the rebels obeyed the irked reptile, for he could feel himself fading off as his body throbbed in pain. His senses were overwhelmed by unending darkness, the revolting taste of foot stink, and a deep spike of terror.

.

.

.

.

.

.

“Get up."

Charles awakened to one of the communists gruffly muttering to him. “Ughh…" He couldn't talk, with all the extra weight sloshing in his mouth. Instinctively, he swallowed all the saliva that had accumulated. He nearly retched in disgust, belatedly realizing that the bastards gagged him with a sock that must've been worn for days, if not weeks.

“Get up!" Charles received a cuff on his shoulder, pushing him to move.

Charles couldn't see anything with the sack covering his face. Sweat dampened the cloth and he found it hard to breathe without tasting the foot funk or feeling the rough texture of fabric on his tongue. Slowly he moved his feet, avoiding the wound on his arm as he rolled about the SUV's carpeted floor.

This was strange. Didn't they move him to the passenger area? Why weren't there any seats between the rearmost and front rows? He could feel at least another pair of legs by his arms and--

Charles went still when his elbow bumped into what felt like a wall. A smooth wall. Hard, yet soft at the same time, it gave in a little to his touch. It was also cold.

A growl loud enough to dwarf the roar of an 800cc engine of a sportbike sounded out next to Charles' ears. He yelped out of fright and jerked back a split-second after feeling something snap at the air in front of his covered face, accompanied by a foul and meaty stench that actually overpowered the taste of human foot lingering on his tongue.

The dragon! It was the dragon! They placed him beside the fucking dragon!

"Move, Daddy's boy!" jeered one of the rebels seated next to him. Charles imagined him with crossed-legs, jabbing his rifle at his side. "Or else our dragon will—yeeeeee!"

Its tail had thumped on the SUV, scaring the communist into silence. "I no follow Forgers," it grunted, the word herreros rumbling out its maw. "Do not say that again." Each word was verbalized in slow, distinct intonations, its guttural Spanish foreign to its throat. The dragon spoke as much as it needed to get its message across; Charles couldn't miss the threatening undertones in its rumbling voice or the way the air inside the SUV suddenly felt tighter.

"S-sorry, sorry!" Charles felt something thud next to him. He didn't know what it was but the pleading voice that followed lent much to the imagination. "I didn't mean to disrespect. P-p-please, don't, d-don't kill me!"

The rebel received a rabid snarl in reply. It did not feel like the dragon did anything else, but whatever it did, spurred both Charles and his captors to get out. A particularly terrified communist struck Charles in the head, causing him to instinctively swallow another mouthful of sock-steeped saliva. "W-what are you waiting for? Move! Move, damn maricon!"

With another forceful, if urgent, shove to the back, Charles Graham stumbled out of the SUV. The ground was unnaturally flat and solid—a road, made from cement rather than gravel. Surely they were nowhere near any of their mountain bases, where they'd have to get down on a dirt path and hike from there. So where had they taken him? Why did they stop there?

"Out of the way!" The rebel from before barked at him. "Move!" He repeated the instruction after a short pause, with terror in his voice. "Fucking move!"

Charles stumbled a couple steps forward. Distracted as he was now, he could clearly hear the SUV creak, swaying with the movements of a massive object inside. He could only guess it was the dragon. 

He was proven when the asshole who kept shoving him out froze and squealed in a most unmanly way. "Eep! S-stay back." The heavy, lumbering strides stopped. "I said stay back!"

A snort. "Not, attacking you," the Caudate replied, its tone still inscrutable. Though, mildly mocking? Charles couldn't settle on its mood until it added, " Comemierda."

If that wasn't condescension, he wouldn't know what else it could be. The mere fact this individual was breaking multiple information established by the scientific community still terrified the hell out of Charles.

"T-then what do you want?" stammered the rebel. "Just, j-just stay away from me."

Another snort. A sign of irritation this time, and Charles had guessed correctly. “Where we now?" the dragon gurgled. “We here, why?" The silence that followed was pregnant, broken only by a deep sniff of the air. “This place, not near dens." 

“I-I don't—I d-d-don't know!" His gun was rattling, to Charles' surprise. Was the communist afraid? Surely he had an assault rifle trained at the animal. Its shots could easily pierce dragonhide. “I'm not the leader here. He is!"

Unable to see a thing, Charles could only imagine the brown bastard whipping out his arm and pointing at the driver or the guy next to him. He had no idea if they had gotten out of the vehicle as well. Nobody seemed to be watching him as he stood still, hands tied in front of him, with a black sack covering his face and a filthy sock to keep him from speaking. The thought of finding a chance to escape crossed his mind, knowing he still had his folding knife in his pocket. 

Yet he could vividly recall how nimble, how agile the Caudate was, back in that wet market. How could something the size of a horse maneuver around him with such alacrity? It would react fast and strip him of his only chance at escaping into the thick of the jungle, if not harm him outright with its venom. He wasn't too sure what its exact species was called—most Henricans didn't care for foreign herpetologists and their annoying taxonomies—but he assumed it could easily kill him with a single bite on any part of his body. 

It was simply too risky. Would an opportunity even come at all?

A door opened with a clack. The man within stepped out of the SUV, grunting audibly at the footfalls of their reptilian passenger, which spoke immediately. “I hear you are leader. Why we stop? Your dens, still far." 

Charles heard a barely audible snap, then a deep breath. “Just a quick break, dragon," the rebel said. “I lost nearly all my men trying to catch that pendejo and we can take a rest now that we're safe and sound." 

The dragon snarled. “My friends also dead! We can't rest now! Other Forgers from giant den are out hunting!"

“ ¡No hay pedo!" replied the communist, presumably waving the reptile off. Don't worry about it. “This is our territory. Those HNP faggots won't dare chase us here. Besides, we're waiting for another car. More security, just in case the Armed Forces were sent after us."

The reptile mumbled its acquiescence. “Very well. I go guard our prey." To Charles' fright, it lumbered slowly towards him. Its mass stopped right next to him, audibly taking a seat on its haunches. Charles shuddered as he sensed its thick tail curling around his feet. No contact was made, but they were so close he felt its overwhelming presence. 

He could smell it too, and it was intense. It smelled of mud and rot, as though the Caudate had not been washed in weeks, if not months. For all he knew, that might have been the case; there was no telling how dragons behaved in the wild. The years that Charles had spent acclimating to the raw scent of dragon—a scent that didn't bother him so much to begin with—was the only reason he hadn't thrown up by now. 

Yet his hands were shaking. He hung them to the left side of his body. Fear enveloped him. The last thing he wanted was any of the bastards, especially the dragon, realizing he still had a blade in his possession.

By God's Grace, nothing happened in the minutes that passed. The dragon was reticent throughout the whole affair, moving not a single centimeter while it postured beside Charles like a humongous guard dog. Charles remained where he was, wondering what was going on while his head swam in his own sweat.

He sensed its growing impatience. Its tail was beginning to move more actively behind him. Its frequency of stomping at the asphalt also increased in time. 

Just before its patience ran out, Charles finally heard the grinding hum of another engine in the distance. Another vehicle. The lack of urgency or concern from his captors meant it was one of theirs.

It rolled to a stop a few meters ahead. Charles heard at least two men get off. The Caudate beside him tensed up, its throat rumbling in a low snarl.

“Ah!" blurted the group leader. “Sir, you finally made it!" 

“Good to see you, Marlon," said one of the new arrivals. “It's been a while since I last saw you."

“Yes, Sir George. It's been a few months."

A pause in the conversation.

“So this is Mr. Graham?" Another pause. “I see he cost you an eye of your face."

Marlon, apparent leader of their little gang of rebels, heaved a sigh. “Of course. This maricon was heavily guarded. The entire time we had ropes around our necks! We even lost two dragons to the HNP."

“And stirred up all of Metro Magallanes in the process!" George laughed, clapping. “Very good! Very good! That's what they get, thinking we're toothless."

That's when the dragon stepped forward. “Who are you?" It voiced, its thoughts echoing Charles' own. The business heir, however, had a bit more insight into Henrico's kidnapping industry. Abductions that were politically motivated normally wouldn't result in the victims' deaths. Charles was not lying when he said Pops would go after the rebels' families and friends in exchange for his freedom. It was simply something he would expect, given the Grahams' status as one of the richest families in Henrico. 

Because political kidnapees belonged to powerful clans in the Federative Republic, their parents and relatives would exert their connections to the AFH, the HNP, the HIA, or officials in various municipalities to identify the people who participated in the operation, track down their families and close friends, and abduct them in return. Kidnappers would be pressured to release their victims unharmed as soon as possible, lest their loved ones were “saved by God" as a result of their inaction. 

That's where brokers came in. The kidnapees would be “consigned" to their care and they would quickly contact the victim's family before they could leverage their massive influence. They would negotiate the ransom like a shrewd entrepreneur would with a business contract—a combination of money or actions of abstinence, depending on the mastermind who hired the NHA to perform the abduction in the first place. Knowing how Pops was on track to winning the senatorial elections this year, Charles believed the author of this whole plot was a rival in the race, if not one of the incumbents, and they sought nothing less than Pops' withdrawal. And maybe a million US Dollars to cover the communists' operating expenses on top of that, he thought.

“Calm down, scalie," George answered. “No need to be so hostile." He introduced himself, “My name is George. I'm a liaison from the CPH—the Communist Party of Henrico." 

Charles would have smiled if he could. Consigned “goods" were treated generally well, if he remembered correctly. The rich and powerful of the Federative Republic would still retaliate harshly if their children weren't returned to their homes unharmed. If George was who he said he was—a liaison—then Charles would certainly be given to him. He would subsequently have his bonds released and be held in house arrest somewhere in or near Metro Magallanes by the end of the day. He'd be heavily guarded to the point his knife would be utterly useless, but at the very least it'd be as close to home as it'd get. 

Lord, how he hated this country…

"I no care who you are," the Caudate growled back in its broken Spanish. "You coming with us?"

George was silent for a second. "Ehem. You don't understand how this works. Our friends in the NHA here—New Henricans' Army, just to remind you—

"All Forgers, same to us."

"—will transfer Sir Charles here to our custody," George continued, ignoring the reptile's remark. "We will deliver him to a holding facility in Lucena and, as per contract, inform our client of his capture."

The dragon replied with a violent snarl. "This not what they promised!" It let out a strong, terrifying snort, tail smashing into the asphalt. Charles swore he heard the concrete crack. "We get Graham child first!"

George's reply died on his lips as one of the rebels who'd been with Charles in the SUV blurted out, "Miss dragon! We're sorry, but please, understand, we can't have Charles dead—

"Stupid Forger!" the Caudate shot back. "No kill young Graham! Clan master say hold him for some time. We will return prey alive!"

"But we cannot take too long either—ahhh!" The man let out a girly shriek as the dragoness snarled violently and shifted its posture. "Please don't kill me!"

The leader Marlon rejoined, "Manny's right. Even if your people will not kill him, Stephen Graham is a powerful man. If we allow you to hold this Daddy's boy, his papa will go after our families—our wives—our brothers—our children! The money we'll get from Charles will be enough to buy more weapons from the Russians and feed everybody for a year! We can actually help you—

"No!" Its tail made another asphalt-crushing slap on the road. Even Charles jolted in response. "We only obey clan master!"

Tension laced the air. For a moment, nobody said anything.

"And this is why you snakes never rose above our kind," George said ominously. "Blind obedience only results in stagnation."

A pause.

The dragoness snarled. Charles sensed its center of gravity shift. Jesus, if only he could see what was happening. The opportunity to run was so close, he was sure of it! He couldn't afford to miss this. He swallowed nervously, so focused the foul taste no longer registering on his palate.

"Do it," it leered. "Use them rattlesticks!" Another grunt. "It was big mistake, trusting Forgers."

"I-I have a clear shot, S-sir Marlon!" stuttered one of the rebels.

"Clan will know," it rumbled cryptically. "Clan will stop care. Clan will hunt."

"No they won't," Marlon retorted. "You're alone and your friends aren't coming. That's why you're just standing there, wings spread, tail upright, wearing that stupid grin. This is all a bluff!" 

George called from the side, "Enough with this standoff, Marlon, and shoot it already! Just don't kill it. It's female. We can send it over to the fetish dungeons we're building in Trinidad!"

"Of course, sir! Manny, you heard him!"

" ¡N-no hay tutia!" Manny anxiously dribbled. "I won't do it. ¡Hostia puta, I'm not fucking dumb!"

The Caudate let out a short growl. Charles thought it sounded pleased. "You, good Forger."

Marlon grunted in displeasure. "Hmph! Our recruiters are pulling in tons of maricòns nowadays." Footsteps. A shove. A body fell down on the road. Manny yelped. "Watch. It's nothing more than the bluffing of a stupid beast."

Charles could almost visualize the asshole bringing a rusty Kalashnikov to bear. Suddenly the pot was uncovered. 

Three rounds popped out of the weapon. Two cracked on the asphalt, while one hit its mark, piercing the tough scales with a soft whump. The Caudate roared. 

Charles heard a spitting sound. It splashed somewhere in front of him, preceding the blaring noise of a man screaming in agony. "Fuck! FUCK! My eyes! Aghhhh!"

Something shoved Charles to the ground. Feral howls thundered from all around them. The air was unexpectedly filled with distinct wingbeats and heavy footfalls simultaneously accompanied them.

Gunshots rang out directly in front of Charles. " ¡Conchatumadre! Die, fucking bitch, d—!" The curses turned into gurgles and somebody collapsed.

"Marlon!" George screeched in the background. "Mother Mary, what a desmadre! Where did they all come from?"

"Help! Help! Heeeelp!"

"Open fire! Kill 'em all!"

Bullets flew around the air in rapid bursts. There were a lot more communists than Charles expected, but then again, the dragoness clearly had allies hiding in the wilderness.

In the wake of this pandemonium, Charles Graham yanked off the sack covering his face. 

First, he saw that the CPH had actually sent two passenger wagons with George, not one. Each had been filled with men, so the communists numbered fifteen people minimum.

Second, that the dragons had anticipated a betrayal was apparent. They had set up a countermeasure to address it and the implications were something Charles didn't want to think about at all.

Yet scared, numbing thoughts crossed his mind while he watched several dragons nimbly moving about. Each did their best to elude killing shots at their vitals and react with their potent breath weapons. None would escape this fight unscathed.

Charles spotted two dragons constantly trying to engage the communists in close quarters, their scales a shade of yellow. 

Then someone yelled, "Manny, look out!"

Shick.

"Joyneil!"

Charles witnessed one man who had the misfortune of being impaled by horns. He began convulsing the instant the reptile made contact with him. It was the first time Charles watched a man die from bioelectricity. No wonder the Henricans called them Molnya.

The business heir did not dawdle and stare helplessly at the scene. He spewed Manny's disgusting sock on the ground, where it plopped right next to his leader's body. 

With quick thinking, Charles leaned forward and snatched the handgun sticking out from Marlon's waistband—a WW2-era Makarov 9mm. He grimaced. This shitty firearm lacked the power needed to penetrate dragonhide.

Another scream tore through the air. Shit, the communists were losing. He didn't have enough time; he had to get out of here!

"If there's no bread, cakes will do," Charles muttered the Spanish proverb to himself and got to his feet. The provincial highway crisscrossed through the hills leading up to Sierra Morena. Behind him, the hill continued up into the forest. The land descended on a steep slope on the other side of the road. 

With his hands wrapped in twine, the choice was obvious. Charles veered around the SUV and sprinted, fully intending to jump. 

His strategy was set. Escape the immediate vicinity. Get lost in the thick jungle. Use the Coldsteel knife to free his hands then make his way to the nearest police station.

Charles steeled himself for the leap. It would hurt. At best, it would bruise him. At worst, he would end up with a fracture or two. If God hated him that much, then the slope would quickly terminate and send him into a deep ravine. Still, he preferred all those outcomes to sticking around for whatever the dragons sought from him.

A surprised roar rumbled in his ears. Charles glanced towards it and gasped when he saw the very dragoness that captured him staring intently in his direction. As he pressed on, he heard it barking in its bestial language of grunts, moans, and snarls.

One of its friends landed in front of him and blocked off his escape. Blue scales—one of the Glass species. Charles trained his newly-acquired Makarov at it, aiming for its muzzle, but it reacted fast, spewing a white, gargantuan loogie at his hand.

Charles only got one shot out when he was forced to gyrate on the spot. " ¡Ay caray!" He shouted out of reflex. Most of this ashen spit passed close enough to his nose that he could smell its rancid, nauseating odor. Unfortunately a tiny slice of this glob landed on a few fingers.

Charles was horrified. It was cold. Extremely cold! It was as if he'd dipped his hand into a freezing bucket loaded with dry ice. "Jesus Christ!" He lashed his hands to the side, flicking off the tiny glob. He glimpsed a pile of ice slurry directly behind him. Charles gasped, thinking to himself how lucky he was that his arms hadn't been caught under that. 

He heard a rush of air from the Glass' direction. Instinctively Charles dove to the asphalt. He landed on his numbed hands and quickly pushed off to his feet. Although a graceless maneuver, it still bought him a few seconds of freedom.

George saw him. "Graham's trying to escape!" He seemed to seethe at the possibility of Charles slipping through the CPH's grasp. "Shoot him! Incapacitate him! We can't let the pendejo—

Whatever he wanted to say, the broker never got the opportunity to speak it. The Caudate who'd originally been alone slammed into his body. George tried to get a good grip on the reptile as he fell backwards—wincing as he landed on his head—but the slime apparently covering its body was too viscous and slippery.

Charles didn't bother watching how the dragoness finished him off. The Glass in front of him was about to move in when one of George's men rushed in screaming, having lost his weapons and coming at it with a machete. His target roared at the interruption and promptly turned to dispose of him.

An even louder screech tore through the air, followed by cheers of men. "WOOOO! Finally downed one of those fuckers!" One of the rebels whooped for joy.

Another announced, “Another down!"

“Make that three! Don't give up, comrades! There's only five left—URK!"

The man's voice spluttered as one of the surviving dragons killed them. Charles' heart was pounding amidst the chaos. The surviving humans still outnumbered the reptiles by about two to one at this point, yet Charles wouldn't want to bet on either side as the fighting could still go in either direction. 

Since he was the prize being fought over so fiercely, he didn't want to stick around to see what the communists or the dragons planned for him. Charles exploited the distraction caused by the rebels and sprinted towards the edge. Unfortunately, someone had seen him. “H-hey! Hold it right there!" 

It was Manny's voice. One look was all it took for Charles to realize this asshole owned the dirty sock he'd been steeping in his mouth for hours. Feeling vengeful, Charles gritted his teeth and trained his Makarov at the idiot who apparently forgot he should've held the businessman at gunpoint.

Manny ran right into the line of fire, unable to pivot. His eyes dilated at the sight of Charles' weapon. Charles shot twice at him in rapid succession and without hesitation. Manny hastily attempted to evade his shots and ended up receiving two rounds to the shoulder.

It was enough to stop him.

It was enough to draw a bead on his forehead.

Charles would've actually killed the damn rojo if he had another second to pull the trigger. It was not meant to be, for a dragon's snout appeared out of nowhere and clamped down on his right arm. Teeth pierced skin. Sharp, blinding pain weakened his grip. Charles screamed.

The dragon—a Molnya—pirouetted on its paws and, twisting its neck, yanked Charles' arm. It was gentle enough not to rip the limb off like it had with the commies, yet as he was hurled onto the asphalt, he felt—he heard a clear, resounding pop on one elbow and felt immense pain on the other.

Charles howled. The agony blinded him. He could no longer see, hear, or feel anything. The world instantly shrunk and collapsed around him. He writhed, threshing whatever limb he could still move. In the recesses of his mind he could hear the rowdy jeers of those rebels-cum-bandits transmogrifying into caterwauls of the dying. 

Consumed by anguish, Charles barely felt smooth scales press against his skin. A plump, leathery pad dropped on his nose and bound his head down. It was followed by a hoarse and mocking growl.

Charles had only enough time to connect the spongy, textured feel of dragonhide and the derisive tone with the maximum voltage that Molnya were capable of when the world sparked to life and his vision went blank. Charles saw nothing but pitch white. Continuous, crackling snaps overwhelmed his hearing, thoroughly and instantly swallowing the gunfire and shrieks abound in the outside world. With paralysis snatching his body, there was little else the man could do aside from dwelling on the strong possibility he was having violent spasms right now and the fact he hadn't been able to escape.

As Charles Graham felt himself slipping away, he knew once and for all that he was honestly and truly fucked.