Prose Laboratories (V.1, Pt. 3)
"Salinger Twain? A? 17? YoungWriter?" Snowshoerabbit cries in joy, nearly running up to the quartet. "First dragons come to life and now I'm meeting the four superheroes of our city? It's too much to handle!" The doorway is vacant, so to stop people from coming in, I rush to close them. The rest of us, including myself, move to the side of the room.
The quartet walks deliberately towards the green eyed beast.
"Though you may look brilliant, you are troublesome," YoungWriter starts calmly.
"You are like the beasts of our school, the bully within," 17 continues, while moving closer to the dragon. It is shrinking is size and fear.
"The flames to your mouth shall cease, never to set aflame a single hair," said A.
Now it was Salinger Twains's turn. "Stop and rest from this war. Head to the heavens where you will soar," he says, stepping in with the rest.
In unison they speak, "Leave this body, you must by sore. This is the end, for evermore." The dragon went limp and it's body dissolved into burnt paper.
Smoke wafted up from the destroyed Machine. A limmer of the shiny iron of the machine is visible through the ash and charred, bubbled metal.
"That is all. A, YoungWriter, go home. 17, stay," Salinger Twain commanded his fellows, moving towards me.
"Thank you so much for saving us. It was my fault, wasn't it? Of course it was I always mess up. Oh no! I'm rambling now, god I'm such a mess. Sorry I'm rambling-" I rant, but Salinger Twain cuts me off.
"No it's not your fault, your paper described small dragons, so that what it should have made. The Machine did malfunction," he adjusts his tie, running a hand through his hair. "but for reasons unknown to you, you will remember all of this, and none of them will. The Machine will be gone. This building will be an online newspaper and magazine company. 17 will stay her under a pseudonym in case someone remembers something. Now, Ms. Person, go home. Leave and go. Be here tomorrow." Salinger Twain turns to 17 and uses grand gestures and tells her what to do. She nods and looks at me, then back at him. I walk out of the yellow double doors down the stairs and to the tube to go to my flat.
The ride home is uninteresting. Nobody talks about what happened at Prose Laboratories. Listening to an album from a recent musical, I get off at my stop and climb the stairs to street level. I walk a small distance to the 4 level building that I call home. Once inside, I climb the four sets of stairs to the top floor. My flat at the end of the hall is silent. I unlock the door and kick my shoes off by the door. I shut the door. Grabbing a bottle of water, I plop down on the couch and turn on the news.
"-test reports are saying that the creature is flying around Kensingten Gardens, famous for their Esther Flowers. It has not attacked yet, and the military is coming up with a plan to destroy it as we speak." The newswoman speaks with an video of a large blood red dragon over the garden in the background.
All I say is, "Aw shit."