It had taken every last credit on his stolen chit, but Rohaan Ja'aisen got himself a hotel room. It was the seediest, dirtiest, most sordid establishment in town, but he didn't care. For that night, the room was his. Of course, he would have preferred a nicer place, but clean, well-lit hotels usually paid attention to the name registered to the credit chit, and Rohaan did not look much like a Callie. And especially at night, the sunglasses he wore always gave people pause. They could be a HUD. Or they could be hiding something. People never knew for sure, but rarely gave him the benefit of the doubt at night, because one needed to have some amount of money to own something like a HUD. And clearly, Rohaan did not have such funds. So his domain would have to be room 34 at the Wyvern Inn.
He tossed his worn out pack in the corner and kicked off his sturdy but very worn-in boots first, reveling for a moment in the feel of free air flowing through the fabric of his socks before making straight for the cramped shower. Rohaan had a ritual whenever he stayed in hotels: he showered first and foremost, then went about washing his clothes in the sink. He hung them to dry wherever he could, then indulged in a microwaved cup of freeze dried noodles in some kind of tangy sauce as he basked in the glory of having a bed. A hard, springy, rickety bed, but a bed all the same. And a pillow! He never carried one--too much bulk--but a real pillow was miles better than a rolled up hoodie. Maybe one of these days, he thought, he'd have to scout out a nice house in the suburbs, or a high-rise loft downtown where the rich people lived, and find one who's owner had gone on vacation. Then he'd sneak in, live like a king for a few days, and leave. He imagined some uppity human snob's brain spinning as they found evidence that someone had been sleeping in their bed, or eating their food while they were away, and laughed out loud to himself. Yes, he'd have to do that.
A noise on the other side of the door made him look up from the insipid sitcom he was watching, and a moment later, the door burst into splinters. A leading pair of Crowns--the slang term for royally sanctioned law enforcement--rushed inside to find Rohaan Ja'aisen, notorious fugitive, murderer, traitor to the crown, arsonist, and high-profile thief, lying on a squeaky hotel bed in nothing but a pair of boxers, eating a plastic cup of instant noodles. Not exactly very illustrious, or intimidating, but the officers were still wary of him, and for good reason.
Where there had been a fairly content man in his mid thirties, there was suddenly a sleek black dragon showing snarling, graphite teeth as the bioluminescent lines that ran along his spine, the contours of his face, and shoulders, pulsed a dim, dangerous red. Without giving the officers much time to react, Rohaan's angular head snapped forward, catching one screaming officer between his dark jaws. The poor sap had body armor, but that didn't save him from the crushing weight of his maw. Rohaan bit until he felt the body give and heard a collection of snapping noises, then slammed the man down onto the sparse carpet. It was unclear if he was dead or alive. His partner, a woman with orange-red hair, raised her weapon at him, but there were very few people who could do such a foolish thing and get away with it. Rohaan's mouth opened again, but this time a small jet of incendiary liquid sprang from it and painted the woman's chest. The splash of liquid stuck to her skin and clothes like hot glue, and the fire blazed wherever it stuck. Her attempts to pat down and extinguish the fire only resulted in spreading the flames to her arms. She bolted, howling.
There was a cluster of armored officers outside, but they were reticent to pass through the door after that.
Damn, so they'd found him. Probably the stolen chit, it must have been flagged as stolen. Or maybe they had some other intel that let them know where he was. Damn, and he was having such a lovely evening too. Even if he torched every single one of them, the weight of his smooth-scaled body crushed the rickety bed, and that was by far the greatest loss of the evening. He roared, a discordant cry that sounded as if two voices roared at once. One was high and shrill like the sound of glass shards scraping together, and the other was a deep, resonant baritone. It was a deadly warning, and perhaps the last he would give to the others standing outside.
Try me.
He tossed his worn out pack in the corner and kicked off his sturdy but very worn-in boots first, reveling for a moment in the feel of free air flowing through the fabric of his socks before making straight for the cramped shower. Rohaan had a ritual whenever he stayed in hotels: he showered first and foremost, then went about washing his clothes in the sink. He hung them to dry wherever he could, then indulged in a microwaved cup of freeze dried noodles in some kind of tangy sauce as he basked in the glory of having a bed. A hard, springy, rickety bed, but a bed all the same. And a pillow! He never carried one--too much bulk--but a real pillow was miles better than a rolled up hoodie. Maybe one of these days, he thought, he'd have to scout out a nice house in the suburbs, or a high-rise loft downtown where the rich people lived, and find one who's owner had gone on vacation. Then he'd sneak in, live like a king for a few days, and leave. He imagined some uppity human snob's brain spinning as they found evidence that someone had been sleeping in their bed, or eating their food while they were away, and laughed out loud to himself. Yes, he'd have to do that.
A noise on the other side of the door made him look up from the insipid sitcom he was watching, and a moment later, the door burst into splinters. A leading pair of Crowns--the slang term for royally sanctioned law enforcement--rushed inside to find Rohaan Ja'aisen, notorious fugitive, murderer, traitor to the crown, arsonist, and high-profile thief, lying on a squeaky hotel bed in nothing but a pair of boxers, eating a plastic cup of instant noodles. Not exactly very illustrious, or intimidating, but the officers were still wary of him, and for good reason.
Where there had been a fairly content man in his mid thirties, there was suddenly a sleek black dragon showing snarling, graphite teeth as the bioluminescent lines that ran along his spine, the contours of his face, and shoulders, pulsed a dim, dangerous red. Without giving the officers much time to react, Rohaan's angular head snapped forward, catching one screaming officer between his dark jaws. The poor sap had body armor, but that didn't save him from the crushing weight of his maw. Rohaan bit until he felt the body give and heard a collection of snapping noises, then slammed the man down onto the sparse carpet. It was unclear if he was dead or alive. His partner, a woman with orange-red hair, raised her weapon at him, but there were very few people who could do such a foolish thing and get away with it. Rohaan's mouth opened again, but this time a small jet of incendiary liquid sprang from it and painted the woman's chest. The splash of liquid stuck to her skin and clothes like hot glue, and the fire blazed wherever it stuck. Her attempts to pat down and extinguish the fire only resulted in spreading the flames to her arms. She bolted, howling.
There was a cluster of armored officers outside, but they were reticent to pass through the door after that.
Damn, so they'd found him. Probably the stolen chit, it must have been flagged as stolen. Or maybe they had some other intel that let them know where he was. Damn, and he was having such a lovely evening too. Even if he torched every single one of them, the weight of his smooth-scaled body crushed the rickety bed, and that was by far the greatest loss of the evening. He roared, a discordant cry that sounded as if two voices roared at once. One was high and shrill like the sound of glass shards scraping together, and the other was a deep, resonant baritone. It was a deadly warning, and perhaps the last he would give to the others standing outside.
Try me.
