Training dragons to do anything is never easy, let alone
training them to race three and a half furlongs around a track.

Dragons are independent creatures, symbols of nobility and
dominance. They could kill men with just one flick of their tail and they can easily
assert their authority over the land and the sky.

With muscles rippling, their strength is comparable to that
of God Himself, while their predatory grace allows them to swoop from the
heavens and pick off their quarry in a single second. Meanwhile, their factory
of fire is an oratory to all those who dare challenge their supremacy, a hidden
testament to the power that is stationed within.

But humans, as they had done with cows and pigs before them,
had found a way to breed this species, to select particular traits and to cast
aside those which were deemed undesirable. Genetic engineering had catalysed the
process and, as ever, it was the pursuit of money which had resulted in the negation
of morality. The progress of science had not progressed the soul.

Racing had always been big business. First, they had used
horses but entrepreneurs experimented with dragons in the mid-21st century. The
sport had instantly taken off. Not only was it faster than conventional racing,
it was also more competitive, with the dragons' pride ensuring they all wanted
to finish first. With the prize of creating a lineage by being put out to stud,
the rewards for success were made even higher and this had only made the dragons
compete harder.

The sport was also safer as there was no need for jockeys
due to the regimented training all dragons had to endure. Each race also
happened inside a minute, which budgeted for the hurried impatience of
contemporary life. Fun was time-managed, like everything else.

Marketing soon became omnipotent as businessmen jostled to
sell a piece of the action. Horses became redundant and were driven to
extinction as the sight of a swooping dragon - wings outstretched and resplendent
- developed a romantic inference of glory and success. It was as if the 'Sport
of Kings' had found an even nobler cause.

It also meant that dragons had become
the slaves of men; their fire extinguished by tranquilizers, their power
sedated by submission. The noble creature had met an ignoble fate. They were
bred purely for profit, which was no life for a sentient creature.

But the subjugation of a race is
part of the trappings of power and although some condemned the practice, there
were many who believed it was a statement of intent. As superpowers had done
before, they used subjugation as a tool to assert their control. History was
merely repeating itself.

***

Chén looked up at the featureless sky. A few years ago, there
would have been hundreds of his kind between the earth and the heavens. Now
there was just emptiness. He sighed and looked out of the stable towards the
other captives, trussed within their tiny stalls. He wondered whether they ever
yearned to be free, but they always looked so supine. Maybe he was just stronger
at fighting off the poison.

He sighed again. Neatly packaged in efficient rows, they
were all wrapped up and protected against the elements. But dragons don't need
protection - at least not from the weather. The only thing they needed
protection from was the protectors.

Chén looked down at the chain binding his feet to the stall.
He kicked at it nonchalantly, in futility and in boredom, hoping that the
strong links would somehow fall apart. It was a desperate hope but hope is the
last vestige of the desperate.

In the distance he heard the sound of laughter and yearned
to feel such freedom again. The city was a hubbub of noise, as dizzying and
confusing as the effect of the tranquilizers.

In contrast to the dullness of his purgatory, the city felt
alive. Music drifted through the air with a soundtrack of chatter, while the
scent of roast chestnuts and noodles tingled his senses. He breathed in. It was
a whiff of the life he had once had, before he had been taken to this place as
part of their dragon repatriation program. Back then, they had bred them and just
kept the strongest. Now they wanted to keep them all, experimenting with their
genes in the pursuit of more desirable traits. A lonely tear welled up in his
eye. He would give anything to have his former life back.

It was Chinese New Year and he knew that tonight was his one
chance to put things right. He sighed again. Kaarme, sweet Kaarme. Oh, how he yearned
for her. Through twelve lunar cycles, through the cloying oppression of the
summer heat, through the blanket suffocation of the winter snow and through the
bloody beatings he had often endured; he had always kept her beauty fixed in
his mind.

He had only spoken to her a few times but had fallen in love
in an instant. The feeling had been mutual but society's conventions had
intervened, tearing them apart in the nascence of their desire. Female dragons
had to be won so he would have to fight to get her.

But if there was anything worth fighting for, it was Kaarme.
The torture of her absence had kept him going through the torture of his soul
and tonight was the night he would give her his heart.

He knew he only had an outside chance but if he won the Rocket
City Cup at The Lucky Eight Racecourse, his hell would be over and he could
live once again. It was the prize for winning the most prestigious race of the
year. Winners breed winners and in such a competitive industry, his seed would
be coveted. He would win his girl and be put out to stud. He would be crowned
the greatest racing dragon despite being one of the smallest. He would be
adored by the public and win the right to have children.

Yes, he would swap one form of servitude for another but submission's
not all bad. After all, what's the price
of a few endorsements and a couple of kids? Surely that's the very definition of
fame. The tabloid press, here he came!

***

To a young
dragon so used to staring torpidly at the bars of his cell, the city would have
been baffling enough on a normal day. Today, the bustling streets - filled to
bursting with the sights, sounds and smells of celebration - were completely alien
to Chén. Surely this
hive of activity, this excitement and happiness, couldn't be the same place which
had heaped so much misery upon him? Surely this was another world, not the very
same town? But then the CEO and the homeless man see the same scene with two
different pairs of eyes.

The Lucky
Eight Racecourse was a short walk from the stables and this saw dragon and
handler parading their way through the cluttered backstreets of the old city.
Tonight, they were more jumbled than usual, with hawkers offering every ware
imaginable - from fresh satay cooked on skewers to hand-made sarongs rich in
colour.

Many people
were bedecked in traditional red, creating veins of life that pulsated through
the city. The atmosphere was piqued with anticipation, like the final seconds
before a magnificent firework display is due to begin. In this narrow
thoroughfare, thousands had crammed into the claustrophobic space like blood
around an embolism. Progress was slow yet lively, but then progress has always
been a matter of definition.

Chén kept his head bowed, part in fear, part in shame, as he
made his doleful way through the maze of buildings. As he traipsed, the
seething mass infected his senses, polluting his thoughts with a sense of claustrophobia.
It reminded him of his loneliness, of the endless days hunched in his tiny
compartment. He shed more tears, scared of spending more time alone.

His sadness led to disorientation and this led to fear, which
enveloped him like a discomfort blanket. Stealing a glance at the crowd, he saw
the faces of beasts leering back as the imposing edifices became huge wooden monsters
which threatened to come down on him and bury his soul. He felt as if Nian
himself had devoured him whole and that the sea of red was the blood of his forefathers.

But a battle soon ensued as his resolve ripped back against
the tide, welling up a sense of belief from deep in his heart. He would make his ancestors proud. He would sire the children his family
deserved. Love would conquer futility.
And perhaps now was the time his luck would finally change.

He glimpsed to the heavens, part in faith and part in
remembrance, and now saw scars of colour tearing through night's blackened
skin. He looked deeper, allowing the streams of poison to leak into his brain, scorching
streaks of pain across his retinas. Blinking furiously, he spied the chains to
which the female dragons were attached, floating deceptively, almost merrily,
in the February breeze. He looked at the metal that connected his own paws to
his neck, rusted and monochrome in comparison. His eyes shed more tears as his
chains reflected their dispassion. At least they had the freedom to pretend to
be free.

As they approached the racecourse, the noise grew louder as
the excitement permeated the air, giving more life to the night. But the only
life that Chén sensed was the desire to be free. He looked up longingly, as if
in prayer to an absconded deity, and allowed himself to dream once more. He would free himself. He would.

The buildings soon opened out into a cobbled courtyard which
served as the main entrance to the track. Around the fringes, there stood more
sellers, primed and waiting for the 30,000 spectators expected for the race. It
was sure to be a profitable evening.

In the middle of the square, Chén spied a large ruby-coloured
dragon with 24 legs dancing hypnotically towards him. He stared at it in
bemused wonder, the rhythm of the movement complementing the sound of the drum
perfectly. He couldn't understand it. He knew it looked like him but it was
free to move. And all those legs looked somewhat human. Surely, they hadn't
furthered their abominations by creating human-dragon hybrids. What was this? Were
they mocking him?

Feeling the need to distract himself, he focused on a group
of small children who were flying kites and lanterns. They were clutching on to
red envelopes guardedly - their prized possessions and a sign of prosperity for
the year ahead. There was more redness in the square. It was as if the whole
city had been bathed in blood. It turned his cold.

He allowed himself one more look at the delight of the crowd
before he turned towards the concrete edifice in front of him. As he walked
through the gate with teeth gritted, he hoped that the number eight would prove
to be lucky for him tonight.

***

The lights of the city twinkled below as Chén was loaded
into the cramped starting cage, suspended fifty feet above the carnivorous
crowd baying for his blood.
It had been designed for horses - profits hadn't stretched to redesigning the
equipment - and so he had to elevate his wings above his head in order for him
to fit.

Within 10
seconds, a painful cramp had started to develop in his shoulders. There was
little he could do to alleviate it. The heavy tarpaulin jacket he was forced to
wear, embroidered with the number eight on each side, was hardly helping
matters. It was the uniform of his enslavement. He looked at the number
tattooing his form. The number eight may be propitious, he thought, but it
wasn't for him. He was far from being lucky.

Through
the thick steel bars, Chén spied his beloved circling the stadium. It
anaesthetized the pain for a few brief moments. He allowed himself to dream
wistfully, his spirit climbing to soar with her, to sit atop her outstretched
wings and feel the exhilarating blast of the cold winter air.

Awash with victorious thoughts, he swore she winked at him. He
smiled, a feeling of warmth conquering his bitterness as he bowed his head,
ready for war. He fixed a steely gaze through the rusted railings; a stare so
cutting it could have seared right through them. This is the last time I will
ever be trapped, he thought. This is the day I'll set myself free. Tonight, the
number eight would be lucky.

His mind
began to focus, his senses razor-sharp. He thought of the day he had been captured
and of all the times he had been whipped to near death for his transgressions.
He thought of his handler, his carer, his tormentor. All his rage condensed
into a single droplet, which then exploded into life to reveal the beauty of Kaarme.
His mind tuned, every muscle in his body was poised to fight.

He stared at the track; empty air punctuated by a series of floating
bollards marking the course. They were swaying gently in the wind. He growled,
the buoys becoming the heads of his captors ready to be decapitated. Fifty feet
below him, the crowd screamed. Fifty feet above him, his destiny waited.

When the trap opened, the dragon fell. Five feet, ten feet, twenty
feet; like a stone he sunk into the pit of the baying hounds below. He tried not
to look down but it was impossible to resist. His wings were tired before they
had even begun, useless sails billowing in the eye of a hurricane. He shook
them, desperate to get blood flow before it flowed out onto the ground. He
looked around and spied the other seven dragons, all falling too, all hurtling
towards their deaths, their wings stuck together as if praying desperately for
salvation. He glanced down at the mob once more, their mouths like traps threatening
to engulf him. They were voracious. They were hungry. And it was all in the
name of sport.

He looked up and focused harder, the image of Kaarme
tattooed on his mind. He wasn't going to fall prey to their talons. He was
determined. And as those feelings increased, he started to soar as he forcefully
prised his wings apart. He embraced the air like his one true love and rose
above the demons, propelling himself forward. The others soon followed but he
was lucky number eight.

Amidst the melee, his mind was calm. Gone were the doubts
and the nerves of before - he was determined that today would be the start of
the Year of the Dragon. He felt the wind of freedom rush down his back as he started
to arc gracefully around the track. He heard the crowd howling in ecstasy, their
ululations haunting his soul, but the fear was being converted into energy now
as he whipped around the course and closer to destiny.

One furlong passed and he was still in the lead, leaving a
choppy wake with his tail for the others to drown in. He caught a glimpse of
Kaarme, who smiled in return, as if willing the dragon to finish the task. Desire
was making his heart beat stronger as every muscle in his body pulled towards
his goal. He risked a glance to his left and saw a beautiful beast thrashing
the air in obvious frustration. He grimaced back at Chén, poison etched into
his face. Whether it was due to the pain of the race or the prospect of another
year's service, Chén was unsure.

As he realigned his sights, he felt a waft of cold air on
the right side of his body. The sensation danced up his skin before mugging his
senses, like a ballerina pirouetting with a towel full of chloroform.

He tilted his head and saw a resplendent green dragon catching
up to him fast. With wing muscles rippling, his lithe body cut through the air
like it cut through Chén's hopes. A feeling of panic started to take hold as he
knew that with two furlongs to go, the race had not even begun.

Chén tried to ignore his assailant as he continued to swoop,
his momentum increasing with every beat of his heart. The crowd were on their
feet, screaming in passion, but every muscle in the dragon was now screaming in
pain. He looked at his prize then stole another glimpse to his right. His head
was awash with a feeling of giddiness but he was unsure as to whether it was
panic or love. He stared at the finish and prayed he would survive the assault
but only instinct and passion were driving him now.

The dragon was gaining on him with each beat of his wings,
beating Chén's heart and his hopes into a new kind of submission. And as his
rival was strengthening, the young dragon was suffering, the flags of surrender
fluttering like butterflies in a storm. Chén gritted his teeth and flailed
stubbornly onwards, hoping his body would somehow survive.

A furlong and a half left and they were now neck-and-neck.
They stared at each other with cold yellow eyes, a jaundice whipped up from
tempestuous seas, as their rivalry darkened the sky to form the blackest of
storms. He flashed a wink at the young dragon before forging ahead, beauty
meritorious over the hopes of the mundane. Chén fought back the tears and kept
fighting the fight but deep in his heart he knew the battle was lost.

Another year of submission, another year of torment ahead. He
was naïve to believe it could have been anything else. But a life built on
slavery was no life at all and a life without Kaarme was one built on torture.
He looked up at her beauty, allowing himself a salutary glance, before he readied
himself to return to the cage he called home. Their eyes quickly met and his
heart skipped a beat before he buried his head in embarrassment and shame.

A death knell to go as the furlong bell rang, the noise
awakening Chén out of his self-pitying slumber. The hollow sound reverberated
around the young dragon's head as the tail of his rival hypnotically mocked him
in front. He sighed, letting the symbol of failure invade his senses, inviting
the mercenaries of doubt to start slaughtering his soul.

Fifteen seconds later, in the midst of the melee, he heard
fireworks go off as the noise of the crowd reached its crescendo. He saw his
rival collapse in the euphoria of victory, the anti-climax of New Year striking
once more.

As his rival rode high on the wave of adoration, he drowned
in a tsunami of crippling regret. How he wished those cheers were for him. How
we wished that good fortune would one day grace him.

He thought of his Kaarme in the arms of another and cried
screams of anguish far worse than anything he had endured. His pain was drowned
out by the empty orgasms of the crowd, but then no-one wants to hear from the losers
after the event.

He spied his captor with his shackles prepared, stood on the
podium which constituted the finish line. Chén inched his way towards him, accepting
his servitude and resigned to his fate.

Before bowing before the chains, he looked up for the last
time to spy his beloved. She seemed far closer to him than she had initially
been.

He blinked, unsure as to whether the exhaustion was playing
tricks with his mind. Surely, she hadn't broken her bonds and was heading his
way? But yes, like the angel she was, she was descending into hell, with wings broad
and outstretched, waiting to receive. The February sky had never looked so radiant
and warm.

Shrugging off his master, he flapped his wings manically,
his heart beating paroxysms of joy as he rose up to join her. As they met in
the air, all time stood still. Seconds dissolved in love's warming embrace as
the two dragons shared their first moment of many.

And as Kaarme wrapped up the young dragon in her delicate
wings, flying him out of the stadium and into the night, their lips drew
together in a sensual kiss, the boos of the crowd a mere backdrop to love. He
didn't know where they were going, but he didn't care. Perhaps he was lucky
number eight after all.