Dragon in a Vending Machine

Vending Dragon

 

Written on 4chan's /tg/ on the 21st of April, 2013, postings from 13:38 to 18:39 in 13 parts under the name Writefag Prime

 

It was a shit day. He knew it too. Just another goddamn monday at the most luckless, lifeless office desk job in the world. Good days were where he'd pick up the phone, make the call that was next on the list, and not get screamed at full volume by the person on the other end for doing his job.

 

Head hung, shoulders slumped, in his beige slacks and white button up shirt, he slid from his chair onto his feet and began to slow, dragging foot motions to go get something he could swallow to push away the depression of the day.

 

C Three. That was his letter and number. To his desk, and to his preferred snack at the vending machine. C Three. He didn't even need to look at the machine to know where everything was, he'd been here far longer than anyone could care for. C Three. Insert bill. C. Thr- a low trilling? The machine didn't make this noise. 'Am I gonna have to phone the repairman? Boss'll be ma-" He looked up and met a pair of onyx orbs staring at him both exitedly and pleading. 'This literally isn't possible. Have I had too much coffee?'

 

He looked back and forth down the hall. 'Not a soul in sight. How did this happen? Why is there a dragon in my vending machine?' He looked back to the small, ruby-scaled beast pushing at the glass of the machine, desperate for freedom. '..it must be some elaborate prank. Robotics is getting advanced these days. C Two will do.'

 

He jammed his finger against the button. It felt wrong, awkward. It didn't fit his finger as well as C Three. Another low trill emanated from the machine, a plea mixed with disappointment as his chips dropped free, and he picked them up. 'If I brought that thing back, the boss would make a fuss. We're not allowed to tart our desks up.' He began to walk away. Back to the dreary job that he used to support his barely functioning life. His gaming group fell apart last week. No Pathfinder. He'd sold his Playstation so he could give his niece a better birthday present than a card, since her parents were having troubles this month. He couldn't risk his job now of all times, this was the time of year when the supervisor was rearing to catch someone slacking and fire them for a bonus, or however management worked. He barely had anything left, why struggle?

 

Another desperate, reptilian cry echoed in the hall as it pushed against the walls of its cage, trapped and falling into despair. 'Stop it. I'm in a pinch too you know. What makes you think I can get another job so easily? The new guy on the job will free you. He can take the flak for this, he's new.' When had he started referring to it so comfortably? It was just a robot, or a trap, or some gag. His hand rested on the border to the next room to help drag his body around, his other hand wrapped around the smaller-than usual bag of chips he didn't quite enjoy the taste of.

 

A final, depressed whine of resignation filled the hall, stopping him dead. Not because he felt bad, heavens no. '..that's what I sound like right now, isn't it?'

 

He couldn't stand it. 'My cage is just as fragile, but both of us are too weak to get free. The least I can do...' He scrambled his pockets about, searching. Had he brought his wallet proper today? 'I usually just bring a dollar for the machine, but I was planning on going to the bar with the guys finally tonight..where is it!?'

 

The chips fell from his hand forgotten, and he dug in his other pocket. Finally, his fingers closed around the small, brown leather wallet, bringing it out to extract another bill from it. He practically sprinted down the hall, making sure it was clear again as he stood before the machine. C Three. It was his code anyway. He hadn't ever crammed a bill into the machine that fast, flipping it and using the corner of the machine to flatten it frantically before re-inserting it. 'If the boss catches me with this thing..'

 

It was trilling again, making that noise that could damn him just as quickly. He crouched as the machine swallowed his money, pressing a finger to his lips. 'Shhhhh!' The beast stared back, wide-eyed, ceasing the noise. Shortly after, it began trying to emulate him. '...At least it's not as loud.' He stood again, jamming his finger against the well worn buttons. C Three.

 

A yelp of surprise heralded the machine beginning to rock back and forth as the dragonling thrashed in surprise at the coil that previously bound it shoving it forward. He quickly braced the machine against the wall groaning. "NonononoSTOP." Miraculously, it did, letting the machine buck it out. Sensing freedom, the tiny red dragon scrambled out of the flap gleefully...and right up his back.

 

'Heavy!'

 

That was all he could think for a moment. It weighed a bit more than maybe a five year old, and he wasn't exactly a fitness champion. But after a minute, he'd adjusted, and began his hasty sprint back to the desk. The entire way back, including the brief pause to pick up his chips, the thing was just making a low sort of murring noise in his ear. Enough to make him paranoid to the point of gently covering its mouth. "Shhhhhh...I just hope none of the office ladies see us. Scratch that, I hope no one sees us. Shhhhh."

 

Luckily, his new companion seemed utterly fascinated with configuring its mouth and vocal cords to produce the same sound, and wasn't exactly good at it. Thusly, his trip back to the desk was made quickly, and new problems arose: How was he supposed to get the runt off his back?

 

That problem quickly solved itself, as the dragonling found itself enamored with the dull shine of the wire trash bin under his desk, to the point of traversing down his front side quickly to get to it. Not that the journey was entirely enjoyable to him.

 

'Of all the places to step on...!'

 

After a moment of silence for both his own pain and his unborn children, he sat down quickly, trying to get back to work. Until he heard his trash bin clatter across the floor and his name yelled by that lovely southern accent his supervisor loved to berate them in. 'No such luck'.

 

"Now, son." 'Godammit I hate that. He refers to everyone as son, or girl, in that condescending as shit tone...' His head snapped up, his attention focused on the man obediently. "Yes sir?" The blonde, bearded man didn't take to the title. "I've told you son, told you MANY a time about this. Y'can't make a dang mess of things! An' what's with that doll or what'cha got down there? Look just...just go home. Pack up clean and go. You're done."

 

He didn't need a better reason than that. His supervisor could fudge the rest for his bonus. 'I'm out on my ass.' A chill ran down his spine. Heads peeked over cubicle walls with pitying looks as he flipped the bin back, putting the trash back in. He'd look up briefly, to see the broad back of his manager moseying off. 'God damn it.'Hands slowly, shakily moved his keyboard back dead in front of the monitor. 'What am I going to do now? How much do I have left? I can make it a couple of weeks I guess, if I pinch, but after that...' He stooped down, and picked up the stock still dragonling from under the desk. It stared, wide-eyed at him, as if it knew what it had done. '...And how am I going to feed you too?'

 

His throat was dry as he stood, and it took effort to force himself to swallow what felt like a rock in his throat. Small whispers, likely gossip, and some quiet comforts drifted from what co-workers weren't handling calls. But comforts didn't stock the fridge, or make him look any less of a fool as he held the whelp up against his back and made the walk of shame to the coat room. It felt like his world was collapsing around him, as if he could feel the broken fragments of what remained of his average life clattering onto his shoulders and trying to slam him into the dirt.

 

By the time he made it to the coat room, his red passenger had decided to hang on to his back, giving him the leeway to tuck his coat on. He pushed open the door to exit and stepped out...to a deluge of water meeting his head. 'God damn it.'

 

"Of course it's raining right as I leave. Rain was supposed to start at noon, and I catch some right as I get fired." His squirming back-bundle clearly didn't enjoy the negativity, as a scaled head extended from the collar of his jacket and clamped teeth onto his right earlobe. "AGH!" Jerking his head free, he turned to look at his burden with betrayal and fury...only to meet damnably confused and innocent eyes. Even with teeth stained with his blood, thoughts of pitching the reptile into the street evaporated immediately. 'God damn it.'

 

Gingerly, he touched his lightly bleeding ear, beginning to beeline home. His head ducked low to let rain roll off his face. Any other day, he'd've relished the feeling. But today was just too piss poor. 'What else could go wrong, today?...crap, Murphy'd myse-' A loud trilling from the red dragonling startled him from his thoughts as he passed an alley. Not just him it seemed, as a hand leading back to a ragged-looking tweed jacket snatched his wrist.

 

Panicking, he yanked, trying to break away and run. His alarm set off the dragonling, who continued to yowl and trill, as the long-bearded, clearly homeless man appeared from the alley. Long fingers remained firmly clasped around his wrist. 'Hell, he's STRONG for someone who shouldn't be eating well!' "Boy, you've found a treasure!"

 

'What!?' His struggles didn't cease, not by a long shot, but they certainly lost a bit of vigor, confused by the ragged-looking man's words. "A dragon boy! A fledgeling dragon by the looks, recently hatched, and clearly not fed very well yet!" There, his struggles ceased altogether, leaving him to stare in bizarre wonder at the man clearly delighted at seeing him.

 

"I've your attention now, do I? Come along, clearly you've no idea what you're hip deep in, and a dragon's a terrible thing to waste! Come come!" He pulled, and then let go, jogging heartily into the alley.

 

'...I'm gonna get stabbed.' In he went.

 

He could barely follow the almost-sprinting hobo through the twisting allies and across a couple small streets, and by the time he'd caught up outside of what appeared to be a cardboard half-igloo, he found it prudent to take the time to plant hands on his knees and pant. The red dragon had been squirming with glee at the sudden increase of pace the entire way. 'I'm glad someone's happy about- oh dear.'

 

Oh dear was warranted by the quiet 'snick' that split the air, and the gleaming blade by his throat. "Now, my good lad, I'd need your word that you can't speak a word of what we speak about or what you're about to see to just anyone." This hobo was FAR too jovial for someone potentially about to slit his throat. "Please don't kill me." "I'll take it! In we go!" The blade vanished, and so did the man, into his half-igloo. 'He can't be serious.'

 

The cardboard construct looked as if it would be decidedly awkward to fit two grown men into, let alone a dragonling. But judging by the head that poked out at an angle, and the expectant look crossing his brow as if to say 'Do you really intend to stand in the rain all day?', he was going to have to find a way to fit. 'I'd say yolo, but I'm not nearly drunk enough to make a fool of myself in front of a homeless man.'

 

Tucking himself into a crouch, he fit himself into the entrance of what he would later dub 'The Cardboard Wonderhouse'. For the moment however, he was a bit too flabbergasted for thought. For one, the cardboard half-dome was distinctly larger on the inside than the outside, as evidenced by him standing inside a place that could easily be his living room if he enjoyed cardboard floors, wallpaper, and roofing. As a second point of wonder, it wasn't soaked through, which was a blessing with how it poured outside right now.

 

The center of the room was taken up with a torn up couch, a coffee table with one of the legs broken and replaced by a wooden giraffe, and a recliner that had seen better days. The room was lined with small tables in various states of disrepair with pictures on them, and a stone pot sat in the corner of the room with a fire burning in it, providing a source of warmth. Not one to pry just yet, and still a bit stunned, he stood there for a moment, until a jolly voice rang out from an adjacent room: "Please, have a seat my boy! I'll be out in just a whit of a flick! I'd think I should look proper for an important talk, yes?"

 

Hesitantly, he took a seat on the couch. His companion, which had been silent as it inspected the room with him practically vibrated with the trill of excitement it let loose, shooting from under his wet jacket to claw its way around the room, sniffing at everything with wide, bright eyes.

 

Not a moment later, his stomach began to rumble. "...maybe I should've brought those chips." As if it heard him, the dragonling mounted the recliner and took a flying leap at him. With a snuffle in his jacket, it produced a bag of chips. His chips. C Three. "..did you steal these or something? I didn't see any in the machine.." Its only reply was to jerk the bag in its maw at his face, prompting him to take them with a sigh, and open them. 'A klepto dragon-whelp-thing. Great.'

 

It didn't take long for the jovial hobo to reappear through a cardboard door, much to the joy of the man with a fairly heavy dragonling eating on his lap. This time however, he looked distinctly less impoverished. Sure, he was still wearing a raggedy tweed jacket, and a button up that would be better suited to a rat's nest, but the pair of beige slacks were in decent shape, and his dress shoes had seen a few scuffs but were polished well. His beard had been tamed, and he even had glasses (with one lense cracked) and a...a miniature top hat kilted to one side of his head.

 

Before he could entertain the question of how seriously he was to take this man however, a hand was thrust into his face. "Eramus Flint, wizard adept and scholar of all workings magical, my good lad! And you?" Shakily, a hand met the one in his face. "Uh...Bill. Bill Foster." An excited bout of handshaking followed, until the older man seemed satisfied enough to sink into his recliner.

 

"Ah, my dear boy Billy-" That had to stop there. "No. No please. Not...just...not Billy. No." A hand slid up over half of his face, his remaining eye making a weary plea with the older man. It didn't take much though, as the jacketed man shrugged. "As it so pleases you, Bill. Nonetheless, you seem to have stumbled on a dragon. It's taken quite a liking to you, judging by your ear..." A hand came up to rub the tender, wounded ear with a curl of the lip. "This is a liking? I don't want to know what I'll get if it becomes proper fond of me..."

 

That sent the old scholar into a brief, uproarious laughter, which had the small dragonling curiously trying to imitate him. "Oh! He has a wit about him! Excellent! But a proper liking would entail much better and much worse than a simple physical wound, my boy." The grim amusement layered into the man's words stopped Bill cold for a moment, sobering him up. "...what have I gotten myself into, Mr. Flint?" The bearded man could not have grinned more viciously.

 

"I trust you know of what the word magic would entail, yes?" Bill's face promptly fell into dull disbelief. "You're not about to tell me there's some underground network of mages I can take a train to or something right? Because someone's bound to have stumbled on that before now." The old man laughed, uproariously even. "That's the thing lad! They have. After all, you didn't realize I was a wizard until I showed you, did you?"

 

It only took him a few seconds to put together. It was why he'd been brought into the igloo in the first place, beyond privacy. "I..what? All wizards are homeless old people?"

 

"AH! I take offense to that! I'm plenty young, I've only been doing magic for...eighty-eight half-years!" There was a soft pause as Eramus checked something in his jacket, before nodding. "Yes, eighty-eight. And while we're at it, if you'd be calling me titles, I'd much prefer Eldritch Scholar Flint than Mister, but Eramus will do in a pinch." By this point, Bill had returned his face to his palm, and added a second one. The whelp had also finished its meal, and just stared up at the person connected to its seat, wondering what was wrong with his face with the way he clutched it. "So you're telling me all homeless people are wizards?"

 

"Not so, my lad! Most wizards masquerade as homeless people, but most homeless people don't masquerade as wizards...unless they're certifiably insane." He guffawed at that one.

 

"Not helping your case."

 

"Nonetheless, your point was, how has the world not discovered magic? There are many reasons, but I'll go through the prime ones for you: For one, we don't want them to. We go to great lengths to ensure it's not revealed to the masses. Chaos would ensue. I'm sure you can imagine the terror one upset postal worker could enact with magic as you think of it." Slowly, Bill's face morphed into a mildly sick version of its former self, clearly imagining the tragedies that could be enacted.

 

"But that's not the only reason."

 

Bill looked to Eramus, then back to the dragon, almost unable to believe getting fired from his already low-pay job was beneficial to his life. "For now," the older man would continue, "...you don't need to know more about magic. I won't teach you, at least now. What you DO need to know is it is very much a secret, and for good reason. If you tell people, they likely won't believe you anyway. Unless someone is fairly well versed in the ways of magic or destined to, they likely won't interact with your new companion overly much. What I will do now though, is give you what I know of dragons."

 

Reaching into two separate pockets of his tweed jacket, the borderline crazed sounding scholar would retrieve a fist-sized lump of coal and what looked like a small, blank book. "Let me give you a glimpse of our world. You're due to fall a lot deeper into it now, no doubt." He would hold up both lump and book for Bill to see for a moment. Afterwards, he would summarily ruin Bill's idea of magic forever. Setting the book down, he'd stare at the coal, inhale deeply, mutter something...and then spit on it. That done, he'd grab a pen and jab it into the wad of saliva he'd hocked onto the coal. To the younger man's amazement, and the dragonling's trilling delight, it would begin to dissolve into dust that drifted into the book.

 

The tome opened, pages turning rapidly, the dust forming words faster than Bill could read, until it finally snapped shut, the back cover now facing the ceiling. "It's usually not that flashy, but I do so enjoy a show. The spit was just for luck, and the words were just me trying to remember what I was doing with the spit." He picked up the book, and offered it to Bill. The younger man's hand shakily reached out to accept it.

 

"So...so lemme get this straight. Magic doesn't work...normally? And dragons hoard...potential...and my life is going to..to change?" Bill shook his head, a headache beginning to take form.

 

"Take the book. Read it when you get home. It will tell you everything you need to know about dragons. As for magic...don't think about it. It's not important for you, not quite yet. You won't perform it without meaning to, though I've no promises about your dragon. But yes, Bill. Your life is going to change a lot now. You don't get a say in it either. From the moment that dragon picked you, you were put on this path. What you do now..." The older man hesitated with his words here, but the pained, desperate look on Bill's face found the words for him.

 

"You struggle Bill. You fight for the life you want to life. If you fight hard enough, it'll come. That dragon picked you because your life had a potential in it no other human it'd met until then did. You picked that dragon too, because some part of you wanted something to change. So get to changing. There's a world of magic out there waiting for you." Slowly, Bill nodded. Eramus pulled out another lump of coal as the book settled into Bill's hands, the aged wizard seeming to regain that former excited gleam in his eyes. Even as he opened his mouth though, the dragonling in Bill's lap seemed to have enough of feeling ignored. Digging its claws into Bill's legs to his loud protests, it leaped at the coal and let out a loud screech.

 

The black lump exploded into dust that whirled outside, much to the surprise of the scholar and the book-holder alike. Unfortunately for the whelp, its chosen landing point, the table, wasn't exactly the most stable, and quickly gave way as the replacement leg popped off, sending it tumbling tail over snout out of the home. Both men shot from their seats in worry, Bill grabbing his jacket on the way out...only to emerge into bright sunlight. Shielding his eyes from the unexpected light, he looked up to find not a cloud in sight. "Now that...that is the work of a dragon, my boy. That is why I study magic. A brighter day made from a cloudy, uncertain one."

 

Bill would look to the dragonling who was practically preening over the new sunlight. C Three. It was a routine. Another chain that bound him to a dreary life. When it came down to it, he was afraid of it. C Three ended up being the start of something new. 'Who knew I'd find magic and dragons and crazy old hobo wizards all from a vending machine?'

 

Bill stooped down, offering his hands and allowing the whelp to scramble into his arms. "Say, Eramus. There's potential in everything, isn't there? Every choice, every object?"

 

The old man laughed. "That's why everyone says the world is a magical place boy. And that's why they're right." For the first time, Bill would join the crazy old man in laughing. 'Maybe it's not so bad. Maybe my life isn't nearly as bad as I thought it was. I've still got a lot to do with it, after all.' "I've gotta get going. Got some recommended reading for the evening." He waves the book with a grin, as the tweed jacket-clad old man nodded proudly. "Take care of it my boy! I'm sure we'll be seeing each other again!"

 

He found a dragon in a vending machine, got fired from work, nearly had his throat cut by a hobo, and had his ear bitten into. But it'd been a pretty good day for Bill Foster. But it only had the potential to get better.