You weren’t sure of many things in this life; why are we here, is there really a chief god who cares, what IS the airspeed velocity of an unladened Harpy? Life was teeming with questions as unfathomable and unknowable as these. There was one question you were absolutely sure of the answer to though. Yes, it IS way too early for this shit. You wake up this morning as you always do; startled awake by the shrill beeping of your phone’s alarm clock. You might be married to, possibly owned by, Tuon but you’re always had this little side thing going on with your mattress. To be perfectly honest, you’ve slept with it every day but that jealous whore of an alarm always tries to cockblock you. Sleepblock you, whatever. You struggle under the claw of your dear wife to turn off that infernal beeping; unlike you it would take more than your alarm to break up her participation in this slumber ménage-a-trois. Dragons don’t awaken so easily, so your first order of business is to wake her up. Glancing at the clock after turning off that damn alarm you see it’s exactly 6:00 am. Groaning at the very thought of being close to conscious at such an unholy hour, you try to free yourself from your wife’s claw. Dragon girls are known for their monstrous strength, but ever since that damn “dating site incident” her unconscious morning grasp has been almost unreal. After a good minute of struggling, you finally manage to lift her claw from off your chest, probably breaking your previous benchpress personal record, and slip out beyond her clutches. Your daily escapes would normally be impossible if you still had a blanket over you, the silver lining in the cloud that is your wife’s habit of hogging the covers. You stumble to the kitchen, almost cracking your jaw as you let out a tremendous yawn. You turn on the coffee machine, thanking yesterday’s you for leaving the coffee machine ready for today’s morning, and throw open the refrigerator door. You hiss at the blinding refrigerator lights and fish around inside for breakfast. A carton of eggs, a package of bacon, and a few slices of ham later and you’re oiling your frying pan for the morning. You start with the eggs, scrambled for you and sunny-side up for her. Using the same pan, you throw in the ham. You hear a light snore emanating from the bedroom; she’s wavering. You smile a little; cooking is one of the precious few ways you can dominate the otherwise indomitable Tuon. Just as you perfectly timed it after years of practice, the coffee machine reaches its maximum aroma output. French roast, a bit plain especially considering its pre-ground off-brand coffee, but this early anything caffeinated will do. You might be a house-husband, according to Tuon, but you’re anything but a coffee snob. From the bedroom, drawing you back from your coffee anti-connoisseuring, you hear the quiet rustling of the sheets. She’s breaking. You can already feel her mind slowly submitting to the smell of breakfast and allow yourself to grin, a sadistic smirk that you’ve never had the balls to show to her face. Breakfast time is your dominion though, and you shudder with devilish delight as you look at the clock. 6:10, huh? It’s time. A small voice in your head commands you as you open the packaging for the bacon: “Finish her.” You toss the bacon onto the pan, the kitchen suddenly coming alive with the sound of sizzling meat. The rustling in the bedroom gives way to the disjointed shuffling of clawed feet. You school your face into a mask of deference although you can feel the corners of your lips betray your true emotions. The hickory-smoked bacon did its job, as you did yours. As your wife walks in, hair slightly disheveled from last night’s romp, you greet her as you always do in the morning. “Ah, baby could you quit DRAGON your feet?” Her face contorts in confusion as she processes the greeting, despite hearing it every day for the last few years. Mornings are hard on Dragon girls, her definitely in particular. She deciphers whatever you said, and furrows her brow, her clear jade eyes sharpen. You’ve practiced reading her mind, so you can tell what she’s currently trying to say with an unwilling mouth. ‘You just got the last screw taken out of your hip, Toy’ her eyes say, ‘don’t force my hand again’. It’s true, up until yesterday your morning routine had been burdened by being forced to handle all that while confined to a wheelchair. No wonder you feel so free, moving around on your own legs. She’s right; you would like to avoid getting your hips broken by her again, especially since her pelvic thrusts have been used to launch small satellites into low-Earth orbit. You have an ace up your sleeve though, so you’re safe for now. “Sorry, honey. To make it up to you would you like breakfast? A bath? Or perhaps me?” You already know her answer, so you serve her plate on the table. In the mornings, the battle between physical and sexual appetite lies completely in physical’s favor. Right on queue she slides plops onto the chair and her claw moves for where her coffee should be. You finish fixing up her cup and place the handle of the mug into her claw. She brings it up to her mouth and sips at it, inhaling the aroma. Behind her mug, her brow relaxes and her previous glare droops in pleasure. You survived the morning. Still too damn early though. ………… As you eat together, you enjoy the comfortable silence. Neither of you are actually fit for human or monster company yet, not until your coffee mug is empty. While you contemplate the meaning of decaf in a universe with a loving chief god, your wife has recovered enough of her senses to break the silence. “Treasure…” Okay, standard term of endearment. Not the best sign this early, but you can’t judge the situation by… “I need a favor.” Nonononononononononono- “My mom is coming over tonight…” NONONONONO- “So could you polish my horde for me while you’re at work? All of it?” FUUUUUUUUUUUU……actually that would be a better use of your time than dealing with Isis’ bullshit. Usually you’d a good 42 hour period to polish all of it and you know that it has been a while since its last deep clean, but you also know that tonight’s an emergency. With Momma Dragon coming over, Tuon’s going to be having a hectic day and REALLY needs you to polish for her. With Tanuki-like intuition though, you realize this is a perfect opportunity to make a deal. “Sure honey, it doesn’t cost me to be nice…” “Thank you Treasure, I love you so…” “But nothing gets you nothing. Everything’s got a little price.” You decide to drop a significant hint. You see those beautiful eyes of her sharpen for the second time today. “For every hour of polishing I want one minute.” Her gaze looks so betrayed it almost physically hurts, but you stand your ground. Soon enough she takes the bait. “One minute of… cuddling?” She hesitates a bit. You feel your lips tighten to a smirk. That would be too cheap and she knows it. You keep your silence and let her draw her own conclusion. When she comes to it, her cheeks flush like nuclear fire and you can see smoke coming out of her ears. “You can’t mean…” She hesitates, showing a surprisingly maidenly side you’ve only rarely seen, “h-h-handholding.” “Your words, not mine.” It feels so good having the upper hand over your usually unconquerable wife, feels right. Primal. You push your advantage. “One hour of polishing for one minute of handholding. It’ll take me 9 hours to do it right. Sounds fair?” Tuon starts to sniffle, breaking your heart, but you have to stand firm. The last time you really luxuriated in holding her hand was on your wedding night, right after the post-marital raping. That precious memory served very well as your go-to ‘happy place’, the feeling of her soft scales in your hand, her talon oh so delicately tracing a circle in your palm, her fingers entwined in yours, her embarrassed squeaks as your tighten your grip ever so slightly… bliss, pure distilled bliss. Sorry Tuon, but those 30 second quickies won’t cut it right now. You need this. Desperately. Now you go for the kill. “Unless you’d like your mother to see a dirty treasure horde.” She stiffens, every muscle pulled taut. You’ve got her now. Tuon adores her mother, you know quite well, and would do anything to avoid displeasing her. Showing her dear mother a dirty pile of treasure would devastate her. Tuon’s a good Dragon girl. A good Dragon girl always has a shiny treasure horde to show her mother. You see her clear jade eyes water, her sniffling harder. Her full lips barely move, her voice a whisper of a murmur, but you hear her. “..okay…” You drain the rest of your coffee cup and get up from the table. You can’t hold it back; you start pumping your fist in the air like an ancient champion. Swooping down you kiss your lovely defeated wife on the cheek, the same lovely wife who’ll be lewdly holding your hand in just a few short hours. She still sits at the table, her crestfallen face in her hands like she made a deal with a Baphomet, her tail drooping weakly in submission. Your normal walking gives way into skipping as you make your way to the shower. You’re almost happy to get ready for work. 5 minutes and last night’s love stains down the drain later and you’re in the bedroom, fixing up your tie in the vanity mirror. You barely looked at the clothes you put on today, but nothing really matters compared to the mad claw you’re going to get tonight. You notice the time, about 6:40, and you call out to your darling Tuon. “Tuon, could you get your horde packed up and ready for me? I got the polishing kit at work”. Isis demanded that you polish her Lego pyramid before with the same jeweler’s rouge that you use on Tuon’s fortune. Pity that gold spray paint isn’t actually gold; it was a long series of unpaid overtime reapplying the paint after your dremel wrecked the finish. From the corner of your eye you notice a winged figure trudging towards the treasure room. Good girl. In moments you hear the jingling of coin and the ringing of metal on metal, the sound like music to your ears. Thinking back, you got Tuon to wake up without getting bruised in return, you made a mean breakfast, you got Tuon to promise to hold hands tonight, and you didn’t even have to use your AK. So far, you got to say it was a good day. ………….. Scratch that. You spoke way too soon. After catching a lift from your green lean lover’s wing, simply because there’s no way in hell you’d be able to lift that small bag that somehow magically contained the entirety of your wife’s inanimate property, you and Tuon glided straight to your department’s breakroom on the third floor. After dropping you off and gently placing the strange bag in the corner with the barcode that declares it her property, the same as the one on your wrist, displayed prominently as a warning to any would-be thieves, she gave you one last sullen pout and took off, her verdant green scales gleaming in the morning sun. You briskly made your way to the cubicle you call hell to clock in and, more importantly, to get your jeweler’s kit. What greeted you when you opened the break room door startled and, although you considered marrying a Dragon girl a mark of a brave man, terrified you. All the drones who slave away in their cubicles were right where they belonged, working obediently and strangely in-sync. That wasn’t what scared you. The shackles around their ankles, reminiscent of a chain gang you saw in an old movie, weren’t out of place either; it was actually fairly close to becoming company policy. You weren’t even disturbed by what seemed to be the all the company’s department heads standing in intermittent intervals carrying whips and cracking them to motivate any worker they caught straggling even momentarily; “Whip Wednesday” was a company tradition especially for that Dark Elf who heads Accounting. No, the eerie part was the rhythmic synchronized groaning of all your chained coworkers. ‘Uhhh uh! Uhhh uh! Uhhh uhh uhh uhh uhhh uhhh!” “Uhhh uh! Uhhh uh! Uhhh uhh uhh uhhhh uh uhhhh…” On and on it keeps repeati- “The sun… is strong… it’s hot as hell below.” That came from the harpy across from Utah’s cubicle. Damn, you didn’t know she was a bass. You frown a bit, trying to ignore the groaning that is trying to bore itself into your skull. It’s 85 degrees Fahrenheit outside, sure, and yeah the AC here sucks, but to say it’s as hot as hell is tota- “Look down, look down, there’s twenty hours to go.” Oh shit, these guys have almost 11 hours of overtime today? Damn, that is ro- “I’ve done no wrong. Sweet Illias hear my prayer!” Really Buri? Last you remember monster girls don’t believe in Illias. Come to think of it, Buri’s from accounting, so why is she- “Look down, look down, sweet Illias doesn’t care.” You frown at the guy who said that. He’s from I.T. you think; what you do remember is that he used to be a paladin back in the day before settling down with a nice slime girl. You recall that even though he hung up the sword he still was a belie- “I know she’ll wait. I know that she’ll be true!” Shit Bob, Lino is a great girl but she’s an Oomukade. Even if monster girls did cheat, she can’t do much better than you and you’re a shitty per- “Look down, look down, they’ve all forgotten you.” You look for whoever said that. Bob might be a shitty person but that’s still uncall- “When I get free you won’t see me; here for dust!” Nah buddy, you’re here to get paid. And your pay is awful so you’ll never be fr- “Look down, look down, don’t look them in the eye.” Why do they keep telling you to look down? The only department head you know not to make eye contact with is that Medusa from Mar- “How long, Chief God, before you let me die?” Come on now. She’s that ghost girl secretary. She’s already de- “Look down, look down, you’ll always be a slave. Look down, look down, you’re standing in your grave…” Huh, that’s the mummy that Isis uses as her secretary. I guess in her case she is a- The door to Isis’ office opens suddenly with a bang. First out the door is the body of someone you don’t recognize, a new hire perhaps? Thrown out by Isis, huh. Next, Isis steps out; the first thing you notice is the French Captain’s Bicorne on her head. She has good taste. Your love for hats aside though, what the he- “Now bring employee 24601” Utah steps up from his cubicle. You wonder wha-“Overtime is up and your leave’s begun. Do you know what that means?” Well, yeah. It means tha- “Yes, it means I’m free.” Can you assholes stop interrup- “No. It means you’re on unpaid leave. You ditched work.” Huh, unpaid? Wha- “I called in sick that day!” Bad idea there Ut- “You robbed a fridge.” Oh no he di- “I took a ham sandwich…” That goddamn horse fucker took your lunch last week? You knew it; the evidence and mustard was clearly on his face. He’s going to pay, mark yo- “…Rika had been gone for a few days, and I was starving.” Bullshit. That asshole always has canned soup for lunch. You don’t give a fu- “You will starve again unless you learn the meaning of the law” No, he’ll be eating through a straw if he tou- “I know the meaning of those 19 hours; a slave… of the law.” Oh, so that explains why Isis was dressed as Judge Dredd yesterday. And why Utah was working OT. Wait, so Isis KNEW who took your lunch and didn’t te- “5 hours for what you did…” Oh hell no, your sandwich was worth at least 9 ho- “…the rest because you tried to run…” Dumb move there Ut-“Yes, 24601.” “My name is Utah. UTAH.” Pretty sure that Utah is just your nickna- “And I am Isis…” Yeah, we kn- “…do not forget my name. Do not forget me…” Probably smart advice. She is your supervi- “24601….” You can’t take it anymore. “STOP INTERRUPTING MY THOUGHTS!” Everyone stares at you after that outburst. And Isis goes back to her office as dramatically as she can muster. You know what, you have absolutely no idea what’s going on here. You don’t even care anymore. You head to your cubicle, log into your computer, and start looking for that jeweler’s polishing set you have. Once you find it, you grab it and rush back into the break room to earn your keep. You close the doors not a moment too soon; it seems as if the second song was about to begin. Fucking musicals. …………… A little less than 8 hours later and you’re still hard at work polishing the various treasures that your wife accumulated over her lifespan so far. She was also nice enough to include a second bag of holding in the first; you’ve asked her before how that even works, but while she definitely is sharp as a tack, she isn’t exactly teacher material. All you got from the 3 hour lecture that followed was something along the lines of magical programming creates an infinite loop that distorts space-time and how as long as the second bag is closed, it acts as a closed private subfunction within the first circuit and… that’s all you got. Keeping it simple, just close the second bag real tight first, and then throw it in the first. All you need to know right now is get the stuff from the first, polish, throw in the second. Easy-peasy lemon squeezy. You whistle a tune while you work at polishing this 18th century noble’s urn of Dwarven make; rule number 17 of being a good, and thus alive, Dragon’s husband is to know your wife’s horde as well as she does. 5 seconds of good polishing and its gleaming like when it was first used. You smile as you toss it in the clean bag; you’re almost finished. Rule number 18 of being a good Dragon’s husband: know how to polish perfectly instantly. Just this last piece, a white-gold tiara with a 15 carat pink enchanted sapphire that was given to the 16th Century Elf Queen Daedeli during her coronation in- “So buddy, working har-“ “I swear to Illias, Bob, now is not the fucking time.” You didn’t even notice him walk in. There’s something about buffing 900 pounds worth of ludicrously expensive treasure that makes you not notice the unpleasant things in life. “How long have you been here?” “Well, they started that barricade around 12 o’clock, so maybe 3 hours. Got to say, you sure are working hard.” “I’ve got something riding on this, so give me one second.” A final wipe with a silver cloth to remove the last residue of diamond powder and presto, the sapphire is flawless. You casually toss the priceless magical artifact into the “cleaned treasure” bag. After handling well over several millennia worth of your salary, they all look the same. You pack away your jewelry kit as you lift your head back to Bob. “Sorry. What’s this about a barricade?” “That paladin guy from I.T. got pissed off and started a revolution. Somehow he managed to steal the Lego pyramid that Isis keeps on the top of the building; you know that giant ass one? He and his fellow revolutionaries took it apart brick by brick and used it to build a wall between the cubicles and the offices.” Shit, you’re gone for just the entire day and all hell breaks loose? “You mean Isis didn’t curse them all with that weird mummy thing the second they even looked at her Legos funny?” “That’s the thing, she just up and disappeared about 6 hours ago. Here, let me help you with this.” While speculating over your supervisor’s disappearance, you notice something in Bob’s hand. Your heart stops and you freeze in horror. He has the empty bag in his hand. He has the empty, OPEN bag in his hand. He has the empty, open bag in his hand ABOVE the second bag. He drops the bag. Time comes to a standstill; you feel your body slowly moving, hands stretching out to stop him. It feels like centuries pass while you reach for it but it’s too late. You caught the top end of the bag, but part of it already entered the other one. You wait for something, an explosion, a tear in the space-time continuum, but nothing happens. After what felt like an eternity, you sit back down, empty bag in hand. At least you thought it was a bag. You look at it. The magical bag of holding, the bag that couldn’t be burned or cut, the bag that was one of your wife’s treasures, the bag that your wife would definitely want to showcase to her mother had a giant ass hole in it. Speaking of giant ass holes… “Whoops. Sorry champ. Was that a special ba-“ You don’t know how, you don’t know why, but one moment you were sitting down with the ruined priceless magical artifact in your hands and the next you were standing up with Bob’s collar in your left hand and your right approaching his face knuckle first. Somehow though, something stops you from physically explaining to Bob the severity of his sin. You turn your head to the obstruction. It’s Utah and he has you by the elbow. Good, he’s next. You release Bob and are about to give Utah something he can feed his wife, a haymaker with your left, when you stop. Something looks off about him and you can’t quite plac- “Utah, buddy, what’s with the moustache?” You ignore having your thoughts interrupted, choosing to look over Utah’s features. Sure enough, he has one of those fake moustache deals going on. You relax; you do have a soft spot for fake facial hair gimmicks and you can beat him after storytime. You decide to let the dead-man-walking explain himself. “Well, you know how Isis gave me unpaid leave? Apparently it was only for 2 hours. So here I am looking for an anniversary gift for Rika when all of a sudden that damn Anubis is hunting me down. I managed to sneak into a dollar store and I saw these. I was desperate.” That was boring. Now you’re going to have to get Utah to pay you back fo- “Well, does Isis know you’re here?” Fucking Bob keeps interruptin- “Yeah, but when she saw that weird wall that Sam made with her Legos she kinda flipped her shit. Tried to pretend she was a fellow revolutionary so she could find the leaders of their group. They obviously found out and tied her up and told me to get rid of he-“ “Shut up Utah, where is she.” If you’re constantly going to get interrupted you might as well bring balan- “She thought I was going to drop her off the balcony in her office, but I figured I might as well cut her loose. Might as well get a favor from her later. Maybe get her to stop giving me OT.” “Yeah, I thought the same when I told her where you were earlier. She seriously needs to cut that overtime shit out.” Wow Bob, you really are a shitty person. Judging from Utah’s expression, he’s come to the same conclusion. Seriously though, you don’t have time for this shit. Tuon’s going to find a way to kill you and curse your soul to… curse… Isis knows that weird mummy curse, so she probably knows other kinds of magic, right? She might give you a lead on how to repair the bag. You turn to the two dumbasses that started bickering while you were thinking of how to not lose out on your life and more importantly your upcoming handholding. “Shut up you two. Utah, you owe me big for that sandwich. Bob, you owe me your goddamned life for this bag. I am collecting right here and now. We’re going to see Isis. Now.” You turn and walk towards the door. Bob snickers from behind you. “You and wha-“ Before he could finish you grab him again by the collar. You decide to inform him why you are so desperate. “Bob, I’ve got 9 minutes of sweet, sweet hand-holding riding on this. You will not fuck this up for me. Not today, not alive. Am I clear?” You don’t wait for an answer. You start walking along with your kosher luggage in tow. You don’t need to look behind you; you know Utah’s following. You step past the breakroom door, kicking over the Lego barricade to the outcry of the harpy with the bass voice and Buri, and you kick open Isis’ office door. You see her standing on her desk, soliloquizing. You figure that you might as well let her finish since experience taught you that she won’t listen until she does. “…the stars are black and cold…” It’s daytime still you adorably retarded yet insanely useful Anu- “As I stare into the void of a world that cannot hold.” Shit, you thought Utah’s centaur wife was delu- “I’ll escape now from that world, from the world of… Utah.” Oh she better not die right now. Not until she pays yo- “There is nowhere I can turn; there is no way to… go… ONNN!” She falls backwards from her desk onto the floor. You decide enough is enough and go to her landing spot. You don’t know why, but there is long winding river of blue Legos right behind her desk. And she fell onto them. You’re guessing, from the way she’s writhing in pain trying to rub her back with those paws of her, that she wishes she actually did commit suicide. Now’s not the time to be playing dead, though, so you grab her by her fluffy wrist and pull her to her… feet? Hind legs? You can never remember what to call monster girl le- you know what, it doesn’t matter. Judging from her eyes, you can tell what she’s going to ask so you bring her to speed. “Isis, you owe Utah for your freedom, Bob for Utah’s location, and me for not telling me who took my lunch last week. They owe me for other stuff. This means you owe me big. Lucky for you, all I need is one favor.” She bristles at the thought of owing you anything, and unluckily for her decides to play tough. She adjusts her French Captain’s Bicorne. “I AM THE LAW AND THE LAW IS NOT MO-“ “THE LAW WILL SIT HER ASS DOWN AND HELP ME FIX THIS BAG.” Startled, she sits down in her leather executive’s chair. You shove the ruined artifact into her unwilling paws. Still somewhat confused by your outburst, she examines it, turning it upside down, inside out, and so on. She even pulls out a jeweler’s scope for a detailed examination. So that’s where yours went. She lets out a satisfied harrumph and hands the bag to you. She crosses her arms with pride, turns her head up, and smiles like a Cheshire before giving you the good news that she can fi- “It’s fucked.” Well, that’s unfortunate. You reach behind your waist for a special something, because it seems like tonight’s the night bitches die. A tragic event of workplace violence is averted however by her next words. “But I can have a new one made for you in like 5 minutes, 10 tops.” You pull your hand back. Good news is always welcome. Bob decides that the level of general satisfaction in the room is too high and decides to speak to correct the matter. “So, how you going to make it? Why can’t you just repair this one” Actually, that was a good question Bob. Hurray for you. “You see, if it were just normal mechanical damage, the bag has a self-repair code within its magic circuit that would activate at the instant before the damage happened due to its shift on the space-time continuum. The only way I could see to cause this level of damage is if some imbecile were to leave this bag open and put it inside another bag of hol…” She trails off, looking at you. You can tell she’s asking if you are the imbecile. You motion with your head towards Bob who is still smiling gormlessly. “Ah, that explains things. Well, this bag was extremely valuable before it was ruined. I’d place the insurance value on it at about 15 million.” Ah, seems like Bob just mentally broke with that fucking smile still plastered on his lucky-to-not-be-sold-off-into-Egyptian-slavery-like-his-ancestors face. Isis continues though with her oddly expert opinion: “But the main bulk of the value was in the ancient magics used to code the bag. With the magic circuit so irreparably damaged, the bag is pretty much worth just the cost of the material.” Utah, mustache still on his upper lip, butts in. “Could you replicate the circuit used in it? You know, make a reproduction of it to fool someone?” Isis looks puzzled. “Who ar… well, maybe I could. I would have to use a new bag though.” Well, that’s good enough for you. “Bob, go and get some leather from that fabric store downtown.” Bob snaps out of his confusion and smiles back at you. “No can do buddy. I’m off the clock in a few minutes.” Before you could reach the back of your waist, Utah comes up to Bob with surprising alacrity and puts a butterfly knife that seemed to come out of nowhere to his neck. “Bob, if you don’t come back from that store in 10 minutes with the leather, I will get it from you reverse-Merchant of Venice style. Chop chop.” Damn Utah, you scary. As Bob stiffens and breaks into a run, you turn to Utah with an unasked question in your eyes. Utah looks at you and seems to know what it is you want to ask. “He did sell me out, so I figured it’d be payback.” Works for you. Now all that’s left is to play the waiting game. …………… The waiting game sucks. Luckily for both you and Bob, he came back with some time to spare. Luckily for you and Isis, she was able to make a reproduction out of the leather that Bob bought. Now everything is per- “What about that barcode on the original though?” Fuck. Bob’s right. If that barcode isn’t on the bag then the circuit doesn’t even mat- Why does Isis have a tattoo gun? How does she know Tuon’s barcode well enough to reproduce it? “Oh, forgot to mention to you. Your wife was the one who asked me to create the ink for your tattoo. You know, she wanted it to be irremovable by laser, tracking magic within the ink, lie detector and all that jazz. Still had some lying around. Also, tattooing is kind of a hobby of mine.” Well, that’s strangely convenient. Actually, while Isis is doing that, you might as well ask something that’s been on your mind for a while now. “Isis, I don’t know how but you’re actually really smart. Like, too smart to work in Logistics. Why don’t you work in the R&D department?” Without breaking a sweat or concentration she replies. “Logistics is so simple my mummies can do my work for me. And you guys are always free, which means I have more Lego time and unpaid skilled laborers for my projects.” Huh. So she’s both smart and stupid. Guess that does work out in your favor right now. “Speaking of which, I’m going to be assigning overtime next week to fix my pyramid after I get back the pieces from those damned guerrillas. Guess who are going to be my three slaves?” Well, shit. …………. 4 hours later and you’re luxuriating on your bed after a well-deserved shower. Dinner with just her mother is a “Tuon-only” thing, but hey, people have things they don’t want their partners to be a part of. It’s your job to support her as best as you can, and those sparkling pieces of gold and gems are a testament to that. You twist around in bed, cracking your back as best as you can; seems like the forgery worked just as planned. You decide to catch a little shut eye before the highlight of the evening. You wake up and the house is quiet. Eerily quiet. Your alarm clock on the nightstand reads 11:11 PM, so Tuon’s mother should have left by now. And yet… You decide to play it safe. You run down the checklist you’ve made years ago. Is any part of you missing? No. Is anything hurting? No. Is anything constricted? No. You close your eyes and sharpen your senses; movement in the treasure room, foot step pattern definitely Tuon’s. Rhythmic and slow, so her mood is currently… neutral. Where is she headed? Here. Time your training pays off. You reach under your pillow and try to look natural while you wait for your wife to show up. Look like you’re expecting to get some claw. She’ll do the same. She’ll wait for you to lower your guard, so make it look lowered. Your grip tightens, fingers in the right placement. Here she comes. You first see her at the bedroom door, a tight black leather corset showing off her alabaster skin, her arms behind her back to puff her sizable chest out. Normally you’d let yourself drown in the pleasure of ogling her curves, but not right now. She’s smiling sweetly; warning signs flash in your mind. Tuon doesn’t smile before handholding. She’s sauntering over, but you see readiness in her legs and a promise of hell in her eyes. She pulls her hands from behind her back, a leather bag with a hole in the bottom in one and its clone in the other. You’re already moving before she opens her mouth. Out from underneath the pillow comes a pisol, a Glock model 21. Not a stock model, you’ve changed the standard barrel for a threaded one, added a suppressor and switched out the standard capacity magazines for a 26 round extended one. That gives you 26 + 1 chances to stay alive for now. In a blink you’ve aligned your sights towards her face and start firing. BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG The suppressor was more for your sake then hers, but it still barely reduces the report. BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG In normal circumstances you should aim for center mass, but this is a Dragon you’re fighting off, not some coked out mugger. Aim for the eyes, Dragons are tough so a 45 acp round would barely give her a black eye but at least she’ll naturally keep her arms at her face to try to protect her sight. BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG You make a backwards roll off the bed while she still hesitates. That’s the plan, while she keeps her hands up to protect her face it gives you enough time to make towards the closet and your Saiga-12. If you can get to it, you’ve got 11 rounds of 1 ounce slugs. Not to kill, Illias knows you’d rather die a thousand painful deaths than kill the one person you love, but enough to knock a wing or knee out of commission for a day. You back step to the closet. BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG 7 shots left. 4 feet from the closet. You’re going to mak- The closet opens without warning. From the corner of your eye you see another jade winged figure emerge. She flanked you. Momma Dragon knew. As you stop firing, your wife puts down her arms and stares you down, that smile promising vengeance beyond any a scorned woman could even conceive. You don’t lower your weapon, but you already know you’re beyond hope. You can’t slow down much less stop two Dragons with 7 rounds of anything. All that’s left for you are two last words to leave as an epitaph: “Clever girl.” ……………. Two days after that night you roll back into work once again on your trusty metal steed. The events after your failed escape attempt weren’t pleasant; apparently Tuon knew the second she saw the bag that it was a fake and her mother planned out the fight and your punishment. And, if the pain in your hip is right, she also taught her less experienced daughter the most pleasant and yet painful way to break a man’s pelvis without breaking his spirit or mind. What was it Tuon said, two fractures for the bag and two for resisting? You knew she had some force to her pelvic thrust, but damn did Momma Dragon teach her a thing or two. Getting raped to the point of bones breaking wasn’t the hardest part of the experience; you’ve learned from your last experience. The worst part was she took your guns. Actually, worst worst of all she also declared the handholding promise null and void. You figured she would find out about the forgery, but you still kind of hoped to have gotten some hand action before she did. Pity. “Wow buddy, guess that fake bag didn’t take? Sorry man. Let me make it up for you, Lino’s got a mean way of using her venom as a painkiller and let me tell you she can give a massage like no man’s got a righ-“ You pull his tie so he meets you at eye level. You’ve got just four words to tell him before you go back to your normal routine. “Your waifu a shit.”