The Federative Republic of Henrico was such a young country that communism and democracy had been fighting for supremacy ever since the Americans granted them independence in 1946. Whether it was the New Henricans Army, the local branch of the Shining Path, or some other communist guerrilla group, if funding did not come from Russia or China, it would come from kidnapping and ransom.

Even before dragonkind was discovered, all who lived and breathed in Henrico knew that people who had been kidnapped always suffered torture. Inhumane torture, often and simply for the entertainment of their captors. Other times, it was schadenfreude, if not unjustly projected vengeance.

Charles knew his entire life that his family stood near the top of a kidnap list, together with a few other notable families in the country. He also knew how the process of ransoming worked; not once did he ever expect to experience the kind of torture that ordinary folks suffered under the communists.

Neither did he expect to suffer at the hands—or rather, the paws—of dragonkind.

The child soldiers had alluded to it when they "served" Charles his only meal for the day. It left him feeling dread, yet the threat was mostly forgotten when they spat and peed in his food, when they struck at his fresh scars, and when they left him alone to wallow in his tears. That night he heard the rojos merrymaking in drunken revelry to celebrate his capture. Charles was surely the biggest fish they had caught ever since the NHA built this mountain village.

As the night fell, and the buoyant jeers of the residents yielded to silence, Charles grew more nervous by the hour. Mosquitoes buzzed in his ears. His skin became itchy in places, irritated by insect bites. The dirt floor was too wet and cold to sleep on; he tried to fall asleep on the alcove, but it was as a bed of rocks.

Every sound from outside the shed unnerved him. He could hear cicadas growling and crickets chirping, as well as distant wingbeats. Reptilian bellowing echoed occasionally, but were infrequent. Those were either figments of his imagination or, as he'd like to think, patrols monitoring their territory with eyes on the traitorous communists living in it.

When hours passed—when Charles had begun drifting in and out of slumber—he felt relief every time he awoke, untouched by anything or anyone save for the bugs. The more it happened, the more hopeful he felt. Those children had been wrong. The bastards had only been trying to scare him. Even if the dragons were going to come and torment him, that wasn't happening tonight. 

Perhaps they were celebrating his capture on their own wherever they nested. Feasting on wild game or mounting each other in a disgusting orgy like the animals they truly were. Charles shuddered to even imagine the scene. 

Truly, they must have forgotten about him.

God was great.

God was merciful.

The Heavenly Father was surely watching over him—

Wait.

The mountain was too quiet. He couldn't hear the ambient noises of the jungle. It seemed dead. It didn't make sense; this was the fourth time he had woken up, covered in sweat and bug bites. There should be—

Charles sat up, heart palpitating as dread assailed him. "Oh, God, no!"

The dragons. They were here! Why else would the mountain be quiet now? 

His composure shattered. The precious little bit tranquility that Charles had extracted from the calm gave way to raw terror. He began to shudder. Began to hyperventilate. His heart thrummed in his ears, insides churning as he stared at the closed doors, strongly wishing that he was simply being paranoid.

God flipped the tortilla.

The Gibb door quaked. Its latch rattled loud in his ears. Horrid snarls rang out from the other side.

Charles glanced left and right. There was nothing he could do. Nothing he could use. The rojos had left the shed bare. The dirty food tray didn't have any utensils he could use. And his clothes? What could he do with just his boxer shorts? 

Charles tried to move his body, only to be stopped by a stabbing pain. He felt woozy, unable to stand the pulsing heat in his missing finger and both branding scars. Damn it, he couldn't even try climbing up the trusses.

The snarling grew louder. More exasperated, he felt. "Fuck, I'm fried!" Charles uttered to himself. He had to do something. Anything! 

The businessman began praying. God, please give him something to use and—

The Gibb door finally burst open, showering his shed in azure moonlight. Charles raked his eyes on the quadruped silhouette before him, recognizing its scale plates and its crocodilian snout. 

It was Carlbelyn. 

Charles squeaked at the sight. His breath hitched when he heard it make several low growls, unable to comprehend its bestial language. He trembled like a flan, but otherwise stayed quiet. He didn't want to piss off the dragon, if he could help it.

Then it turned around and barked twice. Charles flinched; it sounded less like a dog and more like an enraged beast. 

It whipped its head back. The reptilian eyes were glowing red. "We no forget you, Graham pup," it snarled more than spoke.

Charles retreated as far back as he could into the alcove. "Mercy," he pleaded. "Mercy!"

Carlbelyn stepped inside the shed, snorting. It sounded derisive. "No hay tutia." Its Spanish was heavy and hard to decipher, but even he understood why it was here. But what were they going to do to—

Carlbelyn barked at the door one more time, before plodding over to Charles' right. To his horror, a second dragon emerged into view. Its scales shone blue under the night sky—a Glass. If he wasn't mistaken, it was the same beast that had nearly covered his hand in freezing spit.

"W-w-what will you do?" Charles stammered. He barely heard Blue padding into the shed over his pounding heart. Then the Techerta plodded closer, a horrifyingly grim snarl hissing out its lips. 

It reared back and placed both forepaws on his shoulders. "S-stay away! God the Father—

Shick.

Carlbelyn's claws sank beneath his skin. Charles screeched, gasping for breath. "D-don't kill me, don't kill me, don't—wah!" Yelping, his guts lurched as the massive Techerta hurled him off the bamboo bed.

Charles landed between the two dragons, groaning, scars flaring in agony. 

Carlbelyn slapped its forepaw on top of his rash-laden chest and leaned on it. It was heavy! He could barely breathe. The long, crocodilian snout above him grunted a few times. Guttural, menacing, and… repetitive. 

It was laughing.

The animal was laughing!

"We no kill you. If you die, it be only accident." Carlbelyn's throaty words rumbled ominously in his ears. Charles inhaled sharply. What did they want?

To beat him savagely? Break more bones? Take off more fingers? Or torture him with whatever chemicals Blue stored in its maw? 

Graham Logistics had done so much to the dragons—had taught so many enterprising individuals how to properly break these cold-blooded reptiles that Charles couldn't even guess what the creatures wanted to do. 

Only when Carlbelyn wrapped its tail over his leg and yanked it away did Charles finally realize what the animals had in mind. Blue was sitting on its haunches, its back to the open door—to the moonlight. The Glass's underbelly was veiled in darkness, yet there was no hiding the massive, tapered object in its center, pointing straight up at the thatched ceiling.

Charles whimpered, shaking his head. "No. No, no, no, no, no"—he began wheezing, unable to breathe, for Carlbelyn had pressed its heavy forepaw on his chest. Silenced, he could only watch Blue slowly plod towards him, its short snout ajar from hunger. His eyes focused on the monstrous blob of flesh dangling between its hindlegs. It squirmed, throbbing as it sprung out into the open.

Anything! Anything but that!

Charles couldn't get the words out. He dug his heels on the dirt and pushed, prying his way out of the Techerta's weight. He had only moved a little when the bulky dragon shifted. One forepaw squashed his bandaged hand—right atop the bloodied stump! With agility unbefitting of an animal as large as Carlbelyn, it pirouetted—the move dragging a scream out of Charles' mouth—and placed its bulging stomach right behind the man's back.

He only had a second to glimpse the other forepaw before it buried his face and crushed it underneath a crusty paw pad that reeked of rotten mildew. Carlbelyn growled. "I say again, dragon do Graham pup, like all Forgers do dragons!"

Charles couldn't see anything. There was only darkness, the dank stench of putrescence, agony, and a maddening terror. He could only talk to the air and pray for the best. "B-b-but I didn't do this! We didn't do this! Jesus Christ, my workers don't f-fornicate with a-animals! Don't—

The Techerta snarled. A deep, grating bellow rumbled out its throat. Its fetid breath thrummed in his ears, drowning out his protests. Tears fell from Charles' eyes. It wasn't his fault that other Henricans were more morally depraved! He and Pops only instituted the method to break dragons and teach them to work—to cooperate—to assist in their day-to-day business, but they didn't build exotic sex dens or trade dragon eggs! Why were Carlbelyn and Blue taking it out on him? Didn't the lizards even know what kind of people they are working with? The communists—

Charles felt something heavy sinking the dirt in front of him. In between his legs. He shrieked and squeezed his thighs inward, his only free hand jutting forward to push whatever it was away from him. The Glass gnarred in response. A bellow slightly lighter than the Techerta's snarls, yet equally bestial and just as haunting. 

Carlbelyn reapplied pressure on his injured hand, causing Charles to lose focus and scream. Blue spread its legs, preventing him from closing his. A gust of wind blew at their captive's bare naked chest as the second dragon fluttered its wings once—twice as it laid its forepaws on his shoulders. The sound of clothing being ripped tore in the air.

Blue smacked its chops and dragged its sinewy tail across the floor. It alerted Charles to what was coming. He kept staring at the twitching organ and its grotesqueness. He whimpered as his eyes raked over the spines on its tip, the ridges lining its shaft, and the strands of fluid glistening in the faint moonlight. 

Charles flailed, banging his only hand at the Glass's scales. His useless fist hammered against its cold and massive body. "¡Hostia puta, you stupid beasts!" He cried desperately. "You should be torturing the pinche rojos on this mountain, not me! They're the ones building illegal brothels—

Carlbelyn growled again. Charles gasped, bracing himself for agony to flare from his injured hand, only to realize the Techerta didn't growl.

It had warbled. A croon that dipped lower in pitch for a split second and rose again. 

Charles did not know what it meant, and it frightened him. Filled him with dread. "¿P-pero que coño?" 

He had only just spluttered the words when unimaginable pain flared by his crotch. His mind went blank as Blue's bulbous shaft invaded his rear. The feeling of a foreign object penetrating him caused immense agony to reverberate and echo back and forth.

Charles couldn't speak. His body trembled. Blue grunted in a tone he couldn't recognize while he was assaulted with a sensation he could only describe as shitting backwards. The fullness was alien and all-encompassing, swelling further and further the more Blue thrust its sturdy tool in his rear. It throbbed with every centimeter that pierced the threshold. Blue hissed, its low growls turning into purrs.

Charles shouted. He shrieked. He whipped his body, struggling to pry himself off of the dragon. To escape the debilitating burn of his flesh being stretched to their fullest extent before coming apart. He couldn't even curse.

Blue lapped its muculent tongue on his face, its snout exuding fumes of blood, saliva, and bitter chemicals. Slickened in vile-tasting fluid, Charles tried to bite down whenever it snaked past his lips. He failed multiple times, movements stuttering—twitching whenever the Glass bobbed its smooth, scaly hips. He succeeded once, causing Blue to recoil back and hiss, nearly popping out of what was surely his bleeding rear.

Carlbelyn snarled loudly. Both dragons pummeled him in return. Forepaws that felt more like stone cudgels smashed his head and torso, claws raking his arms. Charles felt lightheaded. The wounds stung. Blue returned to form, lunging faster and more violently. The feeling of constantly excreting shit quickly transformed into searing pain. He yowled, nearly paralyzed by the agony flaring at his core and spreading throughout his entire being. 

Blue's talons sank into its captive's shoulders even as Charles continued to resist. He kept screeching in protest until the other dragon smooshed its paw into his mouth, muffling his cries. The other dragon tasted like mud from a mangrove swamp—an intense and potent flavor reminiscent of raw sewage. He gagged and choked. He tried to pull Carlbelyn's paw out, but the other dragon had wedged its meaty shaft so deep into him that every thump and smack sapped his strength.

Charles faltered. Blue's grunts began to climb, flying towards a crescendo. Its tail swung violently, drawing deep grooves on the dirt. The pain intensified to the extent it became blinding. Gasps became wheezes, then wheezes became long, drawn-out moans as he was forced to suck and lick the Techerta's filthy paw.

Charles' attempts to fight off two fully-grown dragons diminished, with exhaustion and relentless anguish dragging him down to a dark abyss. Tears streamed out of his eyes. He sobbed, feeling his cheeks ignite as he was violated over and over. 

After what felt like hours, Blue unleashed a loud, ear-shattering roar. Viscous slime flooded his insides. Yet Blue didn't stop. It clenched its forepaws, claws piercing his shoulders. The Glass persisted, its thick bulge refusing to abate and shrink, its cool waist rhythmically squelching against Charles' rear. 

Carlbelyn grunted. "This, only start," it leered in butchered Spanish. "Begin tomorrow, Forger Camacho work you under clan eyes. During day, you work like domesticate. At night, you help clan relieve stress."

Rendered powerless, Charles could do nothing but wait for Blue to stop. The Glass's stamina seemed endless, with each gluey shot only provoking it to abuse him further. 

Charles' voice had gone hoarse from all the screaming. He suffered in silence as the conoid lance speared him again and again. It wasn't until Blue had gushed another four times did the reptile finally and unceremoniously pull out with a disgusting pop. Its drippings fell on the dirt with sickening splats. 

Blue let out a satisfied croon. It continued to purr.

It exchanged a few growls with Carlbelyn before both dragons started pawing at him, swatting him about like a ragdoll. They chortled at his miserable whimpering. Their blows did not stop until everything hurt and he could barely lift his head. 

Charles curled up on the dirt floor, his bruised body quaking from the cloying stickiness that trickled out of his ass. He felt bloated. The thought of what stewed inside his intestines made him feel like vomiting.

Charles cried himself to sleep, seeking its peace.

Relief never came. 

Only nausea, and profound disgust.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Thwack!

Charles Graham awoke to a painful jab in his stomach. The morning sun cast its gaze through the open door. It was blinding.

"Get up, capullo." 

The impact of leather smacking into his naked torso forced his eyes open. He pushed himself up—his arms were quivering terribly. 

An NHA rebel he didn't recognize scowled down at him. He plopped a balled-up banana leaf and a plastic cup next to Charles before tossing a bundle of clothes at the bamboo alcove-cum-bed. His eyes suddenly shifted sideways. When the businessman followed his gaze, he saw multiple paw prints, long furrows streaking across the floor, and scratch marks on the wooden columns. 

The communist then trained his eyes on him. He smirked, his derision palpable. "That explains the noises last night. Always knew you were a faggot, Boss." He gestured at the items he brought over. "Now, eat and get dressed. Meet me outside when you're finished. Do not make me wait." 

The threatening undertone was enough to convince Charles that wasting his time would only end in more torture. He gathered the two items and, taking care not to drop the water, brought them to the alcove as soon as the rojo left. 

Charles grimaced when he stood. The entirety of his upper body felt itchy. His skin was marked with many lines matching that of dragon claws, each long and thin. The lacerations were so shallow that he wouldn't need stitches, but they would leave behind unsightly scars when they healed. Worse, his butt ached horribly. His insides were sore, and it hurt just to stand up straight. He could only limp, hunched over. 

His nethers lurched. It was still wet and sticky inside. Recalling the horrific experience sent chills down Charles' spine. He tried to banish it—to forget the disgusting sensations he felt when Blue forced itself on him. But he couldn't. With every step, he felt his intestines churn and spit out some fluid from his rift. 

When Charles turned around to see what Blue had done to him, he saw crimson flakes of dried blood on his buttcheeks. If he craned his neck, he could see a few white splotches that had dried and become crusty overnight. He trembled. The fresh memory of that horrendous shaft being shoved in and out of him flashed in his eyes.

Charles sniffled, wiping fresh tears off with his elbows. It did not quell the feeling of emasculation. Hoping that his breakfast would be a sufficient distraction, he unwrapped the banana leaf. It revealed only three bread rolls, each tiny enough to fit in his hand, and a slice of old meat. It did not surprise him in the slightest. Of course this was all they were going to give him. The bread rolls were stale, the meat was tough and tasted like rubber, and once again, the water tasted like it had come from the animal troughs.

Charles eyed the clothing they gave him and frowned. A tank top, a flimsy pair of flip-flops… and a fucking skirt. He clenched his fists, letting out an indignant hiss.

Of course the NHA knew what happened last night! He must've been screaming like a dying pig. God only knew how many had been listening to those horrible sounds by the time Blue howled at the heavens. Charles shut his eyes, nearly releasing the sob lodged in his throat. He didn't want to go out there and be ridiculed by the rojos. If only he could preserve what little dignity he had left. He—

Wingbeats drummed in the distance. They seemed to be getting closer.

Charles went still and recalled Carlbelyn's words. God the Father, when would he get a break?

“Hoy, chillón!" exclaimed the bastard waiting outside. “What's taking so long? Your observer's coming. I don't give a cucumber about you, but nobody here's stupid enough to plant any of the dragons."

Charles wailed. “I shit on God!"

“Hurry up and present your chest! ¡Conchatumadre, do it, or I'm dragging you out here! I am not getting mauled by an angry gecko because of you." 

“Go fry asparagus, cabron!" Despite his vigorous retort, the intimidating tone in the man's voice drove away all of Charles' exasperation. The threat of whatever torment would befall him from either man or dragon was enough motivation to wear the degrading outfit that Porky Pig had prepared for him. 

The rebel rebutted in kind. “¡Que te folle un pez!" The rage in his words prompted Charles to go faster, lest he found his privacy taken away and was dragged outside completely naked. If he had ever intended to follow through with his threat, it never happened. He must've seen their high-profile captive getting dressed.

Charles took a deep breath to soothe his nerves before walking out from under the shed, finding himself on a mountainside clearing. The ground sloped slightly downward, with a line of trees and ferns concealing the view of the Sierra Morena mountain range. His shadow pointed downhill, indicating he was closer to the province of Lucena instead of Trinidad, which was west of Metro Magallanes.

He heard the rojo snickering beside him, his russet face gawking at the tattered state of his clothing. He let out a whistle. “¡Ayyyyy! Looking like a real muerdealmohadas now, Boss!" A pillow biter, he called him. Charles was irritated by the pendejo's mocking sneer. It was tempting to throw a punch at his face.

He might have, if he hadn't seen the AK-47 in the rebel's relaxed grip. At this distance, he was far more likely to get smacked in the face with the rifle's butt and endure another beating before the day had even begun. Charles gripped his fist tightly in an attempt to restrain himself.

The communist saw his fist twitch. “¡Ay caray! Am I pissing you off, Daddy's boy?" He hawked a loogie and spat on the ground between them. “Ha! I'm not the one who got his ass fucked by one of those scaly—

A booming cry interrupted him, followed by the wingbeats blaring down from above. They were louder than before. The rojo blanched at the noise, body stiffening in fright. Even Charles Graham stopped moving. It was a fierce snarl that was, somehow, barely recognizable.

They both looked up just in time to see a dragon touch down from the sky. Charles instantly recognized the animal from its black and green stripes, its chitin rattle tail, and its serpentine snout. Although smaller than either Carlbelyn or Blue, its glossy scales shone as though advertising the great danger it posed on any human who dared to offend it. 

Possessing neither ears nor horns, it looked more snakelike than any other Caudate Charles had seen in Graham Logistics. 

The communist stammered, his haughty attitude all but vanished. “Meet y-your, your observer. I-it's one of the Wildborns living in Sierra Morena. Its name is Zeletruch and—

Zeletruch suddenly growled. Its tail thumped the soil in warning. “Do not use clan name again. Only Forger Camacho worthy. Not, you."

Its menacing tone scared the rojo shitless. “Sorry! I merely forgot my place. Please, don't kill me!"

Zeletruch snorted. “Warning, only once." 

Charles would have laughed in disdain if he wasn't frightened to death himself. This was the same dragon that took him down in Metro Magallanes and also ruined his escape attempt yesterday. He couldn't underestimate it even if its eyes were barely above waist level.

Neither did the rebel, who huffed in relief and reintroduced the Caudate. “Here in Candelaria, we call it Flahe." He gestured at Zeletruch's striped scales. “Mainly because of its scale patterns." Only after closer scrutiny did Charles realize it blended perfectly in the jungles. He felt like crying; even if he had succeeded in escaping the chaos yesterday, this reptile would have caught him by surprise in the end. 

“Flahe is one of Boss Carl's attendants," the communist continued explaining. “It regularly visits Boss Gregorio and our other officers to ensure we respect the Covenant of the Mountain and anything else the Wildborn demand from us."

“The… Covenant of the Mountain?" Charles stuttered, perplexed by the knowledge. A thought came to him. “Is that why the AHP has never driven out the NHA from Sierra Morena?"

Charles would never receive a direct answer from the rojo. He had just responded with a wry smile when Zeletruch padded closer to him, its eyes locked on him. Its muzzle bobbed up and down, taking deep sniffs of the air around him, completely disregarding every notion of personal space or human propriety. 

“You carry smell of coitus," it enunciated matter-of-factly. “Carlbelyn work very fast this time." 

Charles crumpled his face and looked away. Feeling his insides ache, a bitter shame rose in his chest. Yet he stayed quiet. He refused to give Zeletruch an opportunity to mock him like the communist pendejo had done minutes ago. He purposefully avoided the other man's gaze, knowing he had another cheeky sneer on his face.

When the silence stretched on, he peeked at Zeletruch's snout. He couldn't read it at all. It simply flicked its tongue—thick but forked like a snake's—while it stood in place, inspecting him. Charles fidgeted nervously, not knowing what the Caudate was doing. He was merely seconds away from breaking the dreadful silence when it grunted. Charles realized Zeletruch had muttered something in Spanish, but its words had been too guttural to comprehend.

“Go," the Caudate then ordered the rojo. “Put Graham child to work. I only watch."

“Y-yes, Flahe!" he stuttered. “Right away!" He scuttled several paces away until he believed he was far enough to riddle the dragoness with holes before it could reach him. He beckoned at Charles Graham. “Come. Follow me."

Trapped and unable to do anything about his situation, the businessman acquiesced and followed the communist into the heart of the mountain village. Zeletruch lumbered behind him, its focused gaze burning holes on the back of Charles' neck.

The soldier he was following turned out to be someone who had merely been tasked to give him breakfast and fetch him from the shed. Charles was taken to one of Porky's subordinates—another gordito with a massive beer belly to match, who sported a black mustache so shapely that he resembled El Risitas. The resemblance to the Spanish comedian was so uncanny that Charles actually fantasized the fat rojo breaking out into giggles and pissing off Zeletruch to the point it murdered him.

The supervisor's arrival cut his daydreaming short. Callously, the El Risitas lookalike forced a series of menial work on Charles. He would be joining other captives held in Candelaria, all of whom were forbidden from speaking to one another. Work would not stop until his supervisor said so, and failure to comply would result in painful consequences. 

“Sir Gregorio and Boss Carl want you alive, Mr. Graham, but don't forget, you are our property now!" Fake Risitas grinned. He reached over and slapped Charles' abdomen, right where he could see the San Silvestre Farms logo that had been grilled onto his skin. 

“Owwww!" Charles winced, groaning.

“We can do anything short of killing you. Remember that, boy. Now, get to work!"

The supervisor all but dragged him to a large clearing on the western side of Candelaria, where the mountain sloped upward and where the villagers gathered felled trees. Charles dreaded the prospect of performing manual labor like any lowly jornalero—the punishments he would receive for substandard work.

All his doubts and apprehension were further exacerbated by the villagers who had been gawking—taunting him from the very second he was led into Candelaria proper. Even with Zeletruch following him, the rojos showed no fear as they crowded around him.

Young boys had gathered along the paths. The vast majority were soldiers no older than twelve. Their old shirts, tank tops, and shorts crudely mismatched the decrepit World War 2 firearms in their hands. Whether it was the SKS-45, the Mosin Nagant, the AK-47, or even an old Makarov pistol, the guns were oversized for most of the kids. It would've been a comical sight if the child soldiers hadn't focused on him. 

Someone spat on Charles' face.

"Faggot!" another hollered, pointing at him, laughing.

One of the older ones whistled at him. "Oh yeah, that skirt totally suits your gay ass!" The teenager jeered.

"Ha! Look at the maricòn limp!"

A boy even younger than Chico crouched on the ground, nearly lying down. "¡Ay caraaay!" He squealed. "He's naked down there!"

Charles passed by a group of gun-toting children. "He got mounted!" They sang with grins on their faces. "He got mounted! He got mounted!"

Before he knew it, one of the brats spat a green blob of snot on Charles. As he wiped it off, he saw the culprit smirking at him. It was that asshole teenager who spat phlegm into his food and convinced his friend to pee in it yesterday! 

Charles scowled at him, only to scream when one of the child soldiers whipped his back with a rusty Makarov and instantly retreated before anything else happened. "Hey Boss!" he taunted. "Did you have fun last night?"

Another boy, small enough for Charles to think he was a nine-year old, jogged up as close as he thought he could. It was the kid from yesterday. He kept his distance, glancing warily at the intimidating dragoness plodding behind Charles, and blurted, "Ang lakas mo kagabi! Ah~! Ah~! Ohhh~!" He mimicked his agonized groans for a few seconds before breaking into laughter.

"God hates you!"

"You're going to hell, daddy's boy!"

"¡Pinche tragasableeees!"

"¡Chinga tu madre, Sir Charles!"

Their ridicule was persistent. Charles suffered the derision throughout the entire walk to Fake Risitas' hut and it returned in full force when he returned to the outside. Nobody interceded for him. Neither the asshole who picked him up from the shed nor the man Fake Risitas assigned him to repel the bullies and harassers. 

And as long as they did not linger next to Charles long enough to delay him, or diminished Zeletruch's own dignity in their jeers, the Caudate following him did nothing as well. Those who overstepped their boundaries received a low, warning growl in response, to which they would suddenly squeak and anxiously bow for forgiveness. "Sorry, Flahe!" They would apologize to the dragoness, before fixing their sights on Charles and harassing him anew.

Even the older men working in their yards, the adults, joined in on the fun. "Nice skirt, boy!" one leered.

"Ptuh!" Another man spat at him from behind. Thankfully he was a bad shot; the phlegm he hawked up fell in front of his feet rather than splattering the back of his head.

Charles had not even made it to the halfway point when he couldn't take it anymore. He screamed, tears in his eyes. "¡Hostia puta! Shut up, shut up, shut—

Zeletruch suddenly unleashed an angry snarl. It sounded exactly like Carlbelyn's two-toned growl, so much so that he went quiet. A violent shudder rippled through him and he relived the nauseating sensation of being anally penetrated by a barbed, writhing monstrosity. 

When a moment passed, the dragoness grunted once more, its snorts barely comprehensible this time. "No stop."

Its guttural Spanish rumbled in his ears louder than the ridicule his reaction attracted from the crowd. Charles instinctively hunched forward and, with his flimsy gait, scurried closer to the supervisor, who had been observing him with a cheeky grin. Gradually, the group made progress through the village paths, with onlookers heckling him nonstop—a man who belonged to the elite, had been untouchable all his life, and had now fallen into their grasp.

There was no describing the relief Charles felt when the ruffians left him alone. A workshop with a wide yard in the back came into view. It was a lumber mill, with stacks of wooden planks and blocks haphazardly arranged underneath a galvanized iron roof, which was propped up by merely two columns of wood. Upon closer inspection, each column consisted of several pieces of plank nailed together by rusty nails. Cobwebs were everywhere, some occupied by colorful spiders as big as his palm. 

Armed men stood guard at the short fence, their identities as soldiers of the New Henricans' Army distinguished by the bright crimson bandanas on their necks, their heads, or their arms. Charles looked at the way they gripped their assault rifles. Tensely they clenched their weapons, their eyes trained on him—no, on the massive dragoness behind him. The chickens meandering about the grass absconded immediately, doubtlessly sensing the great predator that was Zeletruch. 

From outside, Charles could hear hammering, sawing, and chopping echoing from the work area. Mentioning that three of the other captives had been assigned here, the supervisor began informing him of the thankless tasks that lay ahead. He was to mill lumber by hand, using whatever tools they had inside the workshop. Charles was to follow whatever the supervisor and the other workers commanded of him. There would be no breaks until the supervisor decided so. 

As for Zeletruch, it was there to ensure Charles' treatment complied with Carlbelyn's demands. “Boss Carl represents the Wildborn on this side of Sierra Morena," said his supervisor as he led him through the work area. “Whatever it says, we must follow. By doing so, we fulfill our side of the Covenant."

As soon as they arrived at the backyard, where logs of wood were being processed into long blocks of lumber, the supervisor left Charles alone for a quick moment. The rojo disappeared into some room he couldn't see, muttering about finding a spare saw. Zeletruch sat on its haunches, the Caudate closely watching him. Like a serpent, it had no ears. Yet it was evidently attentive to everything around it. 

Its tail fluttered moments before the supervisor returned and handed Charles an old saw, pointing at a stack of logs and telling him to saw the entire thing into thin planks crosswise, each four feet in length. He gave neither instruction nor suggestion, scowling at Charles when he asked for guidance. “I don't care how you do it," he said, pointing at a stack of planks ready for the next stage of production, “but it better look like the pieces sitting there. Understand me, pendejo?"

“Understood," Charles replied, doing his best to ignore the mocking jeers of the other men in the mill.

When he began, he quickly realized how difficult the labor was. None of the logs had been processed. They had literally been chopped from the nearby forest and rolled to the yard by hand. He could actually see a group of workers in the distance, squatting over freshly cut trees and rolling the logs slowly over to the mill. From the looks of it, none of them had any safety equipment of any kind. Many were on their bare feet.

Charles painstakingly rolled one of the logs away from the pile. It was backbreaking work, separating one from the stack without getting hurt and slowly pulling it to a corner, one end at a time. His enfeebled right hand wasn't of much use either, and he had to be extra careful not to reopen his wounds. He had not even begun the sawing when the throbbing ache in his rear became too much to bear. 

Yet, as soon as he stopped, Zeletruch thumped its tail on the dirt. It let out a menacing growl and smacked his leg so hard he knew it would leave a bruise. “No stop!" Its grating voice perfectly matched the tone that handlers in Graham Logistics used on the dragons.

Charles only had a second to realize this before he jolted back to work, unwilling to experience another strike at his body. Holding the saw on his left hand, the scion of the Graham family crouched beside the log, planted his right hand on it, put his weight on the base of the palm, and began sawing the end off. 

Lacking both experience and skill, it took a horrendously long time to slice off the end. He had worked so slowly that the villagers who had been given the duty of entering the forest, slicing down trees, and moving the timber arrived mere seconds by the time the piece of wood fell and Charles was set to make his first plank.

A loud outburst sounded out from the crowd that had just arrived. “¡La Hostia! Is that Charles Graham? Oh God, what have the rojos done to you?"

Charles whipped his head at them. His eyes widened as he saw a man whose face he recognized. A fairer shade of brown than the other mountain men, his hair had grown long and unkempt. Sideburns ran down his face and his mustache had grown thick from neglect. “Cecilio Oreña!" he exclaimed in surprise. “What are you doing here?"

Cecilio was a journalist from the Henrican Broadcasting Network, typically seen on live TV, bravely covering the latest news on site. “HBN assignment on the NHA. Was hoping to interview one of their officers but—¡Ay, puta madre!"

“No stop work!" Zeletruch grumbled, its words nearly indistinguishable from actual howls. It clawed at Charles, nicking his left arm, before putting itself between him and the HBN journalist. It opened its mouth threateningly, revealing its sharp fangs. Venom oozed from its teeth.

“Jesus Christ, you have one of those geckos watching you?"

Cecilio's uttering had the dragoness rumbling even louder than before. Its tail jiggled violently, rattling like crackling lightning. Immediately, the journalist raised his hands and backed away, his gaze not leaving Zeletruch's eyes.

“Okay, okay, I'll stop talking. I'm just going to go back to my work before the supervisor—

Someone yelled, breaking away from the villagers working on the raw logs to accost the journalist. “Son of a thousand whores! Oreña, you pinche ojete, get back here or else I'll report—

“Wait, guey! Flahe is—

The warning came too late. Zeletruch had been so irritated by Cecilio and this intrusive rebel that it quickly sprayed fluid at both men. The journalist dove out of the way, narrowly escaping harm's way. The rojo wasn't so lucky, with the jet of venomous spit splattering all over his face.

He fell down, screaming in intense agony. He grabbed at his own eyes, clutching at it. He rolled on the ground and rubbed his face with dirt but nothing he did dulled the pain. “Wash it off!" he screeched. “Wash it off! Use anything. Water, piss, I don't care, just help me!"

Charles stared dumbly at the sight. A teenage boy scampered over to the fallen man. Half-naked, he pulled down his shorts and promptly urinated on the victim's face, yet the shrieks continued long after he had emptied his bladder. Somebody shoved the young man away, bearing a bucket of water and a dipper.

If any of the communists were angry at Zeletruch, they did not show it. Neither did they even glance at the dragoness. It was as though the reptile was untouchable in this place. 

Apathetic to their plight, Zeletruch stomped towards Charles. His stupor cleared instantly as he focused on its furious gaze, on the frighteningly sharp teeth being bared at him, and on how large the dragoness was up close. Its eyes were level with his neck. 

"Stupid Forger!" Zeletruch swatted Charles with its paw, easily reaching his face before he could react. It slugged him with enough strength to paint his jaw blue, claws raking his cheek. It was so hard that he staggered, yelping in pain. 

When the Caudate reared threateningly on its hind legs, a fear-stricken expression replaced Charles' outrage. Not even bothering to wipe off his blood, he gyrated and resumed sawing, hunching low over the wood. He ignored the soreness in his right hand and soldiered through the discomfort of working with his left. He endured Zeletruch's belligerent prodding, doing nothing whenever it whacked his legs or poked him every time he tried to rest.

Sweat poured out of Charles' body as he continued to work. With his meager skills, he sawed the log the best he could. He did not stop even after his arms started to hurt—after his vision blurred—after his heart marched to a rapid drumbeat. His throat felt dry. His stomach also felt as though someone had thrust a knife into it. Still, he did not stop. He could not stop.

When the saw fell from his trembling hands and clattered on the dirt, the dragoness hissed in his ears, the noise so loud and jarring that he heard static in his ears and flinched.

Charles didn't realize he had ceased his work until Zeletruch whipped its tail on his ass, slapping the raw scars—the blazing pain jolting him back into reality. He fell forward, face slamming the lumber. Tears flowed freely from Charles' eyes as he begged the Caudate to let him rest or get a drink of water. It responded with an angry snort. "Forgers never let dragons rest!"

Faint hope returned to his eyes when his supervisor walked into the scene, stifling a burp from what was apparently a hearty meal. Charles pleaded for a break and even a bit of food. To his dismay, the man disregarded him. He scrutinized his work intently, eyeing several planks from several angles. Then, without warning, he slapped Charles in the face with a piece.

"This is shit!" he shouted, waving the wooden plank in the air. "¡El burro sabe mas que tu, reverendo maricon!"

Charles protested, "No, you're the one who's stupid! I've never done this my entire life—

The supervisor punched him in the face. "Then figure it out, capullo!" He spat on Charles the second he collapsed on the ground. "No breaks until you finish sawing planks out of that log!

"You better have at least one piece done properly, boy, or you are fried." He nodded at Zeletruch while returning to the shade. "Flahe, you know what to do."

His hopes for respite dashed and ground to dust, Charles bitterly resumed work. He struggled to hold the log still and keep the saw straight when he could neither see well nor move well. The heat became unbearable when the sun passed its zenith. His dizziness grew stronger, and his throat drier, until he wobbled and fell down, body feeling like it was burning from inside.

Charles was delirious. He barely registered Zeletruch's paws on him before the dragoness left him alone on the dirt. After some time, it returned with the supervisor, who placed a hand on his forehead and yelled at someone he couldn't see. 

"...go to… doctor…! I suspect… mild sepsis… yesterday…"

Charles passed out, welcoming the darkness and the respite it offered.

It didn't last long.

Like waking up from dreamless sleep, Charles found himself back in the shed, his degrading rags tainted in cold sweat. It was dark. Almost pitch black. Although his throat felt like a barren desert and the scars still ached, whatever ailed him that afternoon clearly had broken. 

A minute later, he spotted a tray on the ground. 

Slowly, Charles lowered himself to the dirt and checked what the NHA gave him that night—a cob of corn and razor-thin slices of old meat. A very marginal improvement over breakfast that morning, unable to eliminate the hunger pangs he'd been feeling all day. 

Nevertheless, it had been a pleasant surprise to find out they had also given him a liter of water to drink. Feeling the plastic bottle crumple in his left hand, Charles groaned from sweet relief. He was so parched that he drank three-fifths of the liquid inside without stopping, pushing the fact it was drawn from the livestock troughs to the back of his mind. 

At least nothing had been done to his food and drink this time.

When he was finished, Charles sat in the bamboo alcove, surrounded by dead silence. He leaned back on the wall, the cold, solid, and uncomfortable bamboo on his back serving as a stark reminder of what would be his life for a long time.

Vicious.

Ignominious.

Squalid.

Charles didn't dare think how long he could last living so wretchedly. Did that gordito send his finger to Pops? What was happening back home? Would he actually withdraw from the senatorial elections? Was… was someone going to come and rescue him? When were they coming? 

For the first time in decades, Charles raised his head to the ceiling—to the sky—and prayed to God in the merciless umbra. Prayed for help, and for help to come fast. 

Carlbelyn returned later that night, slamming the Gibb doors open as it had previously done. The bulky, menacing Techerta brought a dragon Charles didn't recognize. 

Charles got up, his heart palpitating. Adrenaline and terror rushed to his head, anticipating another fierce struggle. His trepidation peaked when he realized they hadn't immediately made a move on him. He peeked at the outside and barely saw a silhouette outside. It resembled Zeletruch.

Carlbelyn had its attention on the latter, conversing with the Caudate in its native language. Briefly, they shared hushed growls, low barks, and quiet warbles before the latter snorted and shifted in the darkness.

This prompted the Techerta to holler in Spanish. "Come, join! Have revenge!"

Zeletruch hissed in reply. It spat violently before flaring its wings and taking to the skies.

Carlbelyn snorted, then swiveled its snout back to the shed. It glanced at its companion, which was grumbling at him. Charles' eyes were drawn once again to the bulbous shadow dangling by its hindlegs. He was unnerved by the way it licked its chops and shook its rump. It would surely pounce on him as soon as it had an opening. 

Carlbelyn made the same two-pitch growl from last night, dipping and rising in a split-second. Its companion suddenly leaped at the businessman, voracious hunger in its eyes.

Charles eluded the initial lunge. He even landed a kick on the dragon's snout. Hearing its high-pitched squeal brought a smile to his face, though it was short-lived. The reptile snarled blusteringly in what he thought was frustration before springing at him again. It moved much faster this time, sinking its claws into his shoulders and throwing him to the dirt.

Carlbelyn did nothing but watch. It crooned in satisfaction while its companion overpowered the human. "Forgers say you hungry," it chortled. "Here, let dragon feed you."

Charles cursed at Carlbelyn as he did everything he could to dissuade the other beast from having its way, from forcing itself on him. His efforts were ultimately useless. Even the mere attempt at biting its pointed tool resulted in the dragon shoving its monumental shaft further into his mouth to the point of choking.

Jaws burning with pain, constantly gagging as the nauseating flesh slid in and out his throat, Charles began shedding tears. He was trapped. 

Trapped underneath the hulking scales.

Trapped in the godforsaken village of Candelaria.

Time blurred for the Graham Logistics scion as both communists and dragons never gave him rest. Although they had somehow procured antibiotics for the illness that had knocked him down on his first day, the tortuous abuse never ceased.

Early in the morning, someone from the NHA would fetch him from the shed and escort him to work. Zeletruch always arrived at the same time, never late. Each day Charles endured jeers and contempt from the young militants. Each day he worked almost nonstop, coerced constantly by the watchful Caudate. After what happened last time, none of the other captives approached him out of fear. Not even the bold and daring Cecilio Oreña—the journalist only shot him looks of sympathy and despair in his direction whenever their paths crossed. 

Charles was starving everyday. His stomach rumbled constantly for real food and drink, not old and tasteless scraps. Three days had not even passed when he began craving the taste of a Big Mac and Coke. After about a week his endurance shattered. He became so desperate that he caved in and begged the rojos for more food. He knelt before Porky—before Gregorio Camacho and pleaded for anything to make the ravenous hunger go away. 

In response, the immigrant-turned-rebel laughed at his groveling and all but told him to fuck off. "Why should I? Back home, Marcos, his cronies, and all the fucking oligarchs took the people's money for themselves and—putangina!—nothing's changed even with that housewife as president! You Henricans aren't that different from my people, Charles Preston Graham. You're just as rich and corrupt as the leeches in MY country! You deserve everything being done to you. Everything. Lahat!" Porky seized his tank top by its collar, nearly tearing it off, and then brought his lips to Charles' ears. "At sa totoo lang," he whispered with a chuckle, "I get a kick every time someone tells me you smell like dragon spooge." 

"¡Pinche conchatumadre!" Charles went flush with rage. He roared like a lunatic and lunged at Porky, hoping to at least tear a lip, blacken his eye—anything, as long as it hurt. However, the disgustingly obese stomach of Candelaria's village chief did not inhibit his fighter instinct. He easily evaded the young scion and struck back with a solid blow to the solar plexus.

Charles' resistance flagged from that day forward. His relentless suffering became his daily life. He lived each and every day with a gnawing emptiness in his guts. He spent every night drenched in white crust, his hunger abated by the thick slime gumming up his insides. Revulsion and self-loathing filled his thoughts long before sleep devoured him and spat him out the next morning with new scars and a heavier heart.

As time marched on, as the days became weeks and weeks turned into months, Charles lost his muscular physique. Endless voracity nibbled at his husky, athletic form and transmogrified him into a shadow, pathetic and gaunt.

The recalcitrant fire in his eyes slowly died by the day. He struggled less and less until resignation took root.

Until the lights went out.