In the Conservatory, the electric speakers popped, chiming out the morning bell. Deimos and his brothers sprang awake in their dugout den, before running to the enclosures before their PSS handlers reprimanded them for moving too slowly. 

The small concrete enclosures contained only a small fountain used for fresh water, a place in the corner for waste, and a raised bowl that sat under a pipe that automatically dispensed food pellets. Heavy metal doors closed behind each of them when they entered. One dragon per enclosure to stop them working together to get through the door.

The doors used to be bars, when Deimos and his brothers were much smaller. Perses had eaten through them once, so the PSS handlers swapped to solid metal, which was harder for the dragons to get their teeth around.

The enclosures were used when the draconic assets were active within the Conservatory and workers needed to enter. This included feedings times, cleanings, and whenever they were about to be taken for an experiment or training.

The dragon’s breakfast was delivered by the usual two workers; arguably the two humans safest from any violence from the dragons. Deimos, at five years old, had given one of the feeders a nip when they’d tried to add more food to his tray by putting their hand too close to his head. It had been just a little thing, barely drawing any blood, but they weren’t fed for nearly three days while Knight worked out new protocols.

Probably for the best. Deimos had days now where he wished he’d bitten off a hand or two.

After the workers left, another bell in a lower key sounded, and their enclosures unlocked, releasing them back into their habitat. A giant pile of leafy greens, fruits, vegetables, carbo-loaded worms and a container of large grasshoppers sat in the feeding area, which Moros and Icelus ran to munch on. Meanwhile, Deimos and Perses all waited by the edge of the pond, staring down through the water as they waited for the shallow bottom to open.

The low chime sounded, and the metal seal that kept the pond a shallow one foot deep opened, revealing a larger underwater area. There were black carp to catch and eat, but Deimos learned not to eat them all too fast. Knight didn’t like having the pond restocked more than once every thirty to thirty one days.

Deimos dove in while Perses took a slower route, wading into the shallower area and letting himself sink. Deimos found a thrill in the hunt of the carp. He moved like the fish themselves through the water and felt entirely at home. He could breathe in water like it was air, structures at the back of his throat able to diffuse oxygen out of the liquid, according to what Deimos overheard from the scientists. Deimos could stay below the surface for hours, if he wanted to. The cool silence under the water made him feel like he could finally breathe.

After snapping up a few fish and bringing two back up for Moros and Icelus, he picked at the fruit and mealworms, watching Perses emerge with his own mouthful of carp.

The north entrance to the Conservatory buzzed before they finished eating. Normally, they would be forced into their enclosures, but there was one human who inspired more fear in the dragons than anyone else.

John Knight strode through the conservatory without any of the wariness that the two soldiers accompanying him exhibited. He knew Moros and Icelus wouldn’t dare try to raise a claw against him, and Perses and Deimos wouldn’t dare risk Knight punishing their brothers for something the two older dragons did.

Deimos eyed him warily, licking over his fangs to suck the last of the fish scales away. His tail moved smoothly in front of his brothers, putting them slightly behind himself as he faced Knight.

“Morning, sir,” Deimos answered flatly. His brothers murmured the same, Perses keeping his eyes averted.

“B-1,” Knight said, ignoring the greeting. “You will be sent for decontamination today.”

Deimos scowled. “Why?” He hissed.

The dark lenses of Knight’s sunglasses obscured his eyes completely. “Foreign material was detected in the aquatic environment as you were swimming, centered around you. Such contaminants would be detrimental to wound recovery. The entire pool will need to be cleaned now as well.” 

His tone rang with disappointment, as if it was Deimos’s fault if his brothers healed slowly, and not Knight’s for creating those wounds in the first place.

Crest rising, Deimos wondered if Knight knew he’d been in the vents. But no, he couldn’t. If Knight did know where Deimos went, he would fix the broken tunnel Deimos found, and Deimos would never be able to escape the Conservatory ever again.

He took a breath to steady himself. “Maybe your hallways should be cleaner.”

Knight didn’t acknowledge his sass. Instead he turned to Icelus. “B-4, you are required.” 

Deimos bit down his hiss, knowing if he made a sound another one of his other brothers would be put back on the table with Icelus. Knight never reprimanded Deimos when he misbehaved directly, not anymore at least. He had found much more effective methods. 

Icelus shrank back, eye wide and round. Perses and Moros lowered their heads. They knew better than to try and take his place; it would only end up with all of them suffering alongside him.

One of Knight’s brows raised. 

“B-4.” His voice hardened, and Icelus straightened, before marching to Knight’s side with a detached, glazed look in his eye. “B-2 will be running the red level obstacle course today. B-3–” Moros flinched. “You will be doing memory retention testing.”

The dragons nodded, and Knight turned to walk out of the enclosure, Icelus following a step behind. Deimos fought the urge to pounce on the man’s back and tear his spine out. He eyed the guards with their guns, and the sprinkler system that ran through the Conservatory, ready to gas the dragons to death. Deimos flexed his claws against his thigh, and gritted his teeth as two handlers guided him out of the Conservatory to decontamination.

Deimos gulped in a deep breath of air before he was forced to step into a cylindrical chamber that sealed behind him. It became unbearably hot and suffocating. His scales rose in an attempt to cool him off, his crest opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. He scrunched into the center of the chamber, bracing himself as a faint beep sounded. The hoses affixed to the insides of the chamber started spraying him with a noxious concoction of soap and solvents.

He held his breath for as long as he could, keeping his eyes squeezed shut, but he couldn’t keep it in forever. As he sucked in a breath, trying desperately to put his nose up over the spray, the smell of disinfectant burned down his throat and in his head, overwhelming him. He coughed and gagged as the spray caught on his tongue, in his mouth.

Deimos didn’t scream, because there was no point. It only got more in his mouth, taste burning and overtaking everything else. The roar of the hoses, the loud, skull-piercing sounds as certain temperatures were reached, certain pressure, certain chemicals, it was all too much.

He always blacked out at some point, always came to in a heap on the floor, gasping in breaths as the chamber unsealed and the cold air came rushing in. His scales snapped down, smoothing over to guard against the sudden cold. Disoriented,  gloved hands and poles hauled him out of the tube, and blasted him with air in another chamber to dry off. He hissed, weakly, but hands weren’t touching him, only long-reaching grabbers with nooses on the ends so he wouldn’t bite. There was no point in biting.

He hated decontamination.

When it was done, he was escorted to his training, hardly able to put his thoughts together in time to actually process the instructions given by his handler.

Halfway through, he felt a sudden spike of terror at the back of his mind, the part that gave him feelings about his brothers. The connection, vague but present, screamed with terror, and he knew what was happening to Icelus.

He gritted his teeth and focused on tearing into the sand-filled targets.

…