Wyverns of Mass Destruction

Michael II, Part 3

He didn't realize how truly unstable he felt until he followed the pilots down to the cafeteria.

They filed into the food line. Tantalizing smells washed over him—meat, butter, and salt, the beloved staples of a man who'd learned only enough cooking to avoid scurvy. The pilots filled their plates and walked off to their tables. Michael had no clue where he was supposed to sit. And that felt like a huge problem.

You're a grown fucking man, Boorley, he thought as he scooped mashed potatoes onto his plate, not some teenager in a high-school cafeteria. His stomach ached after not consuming a real meal in days. He ladled a steaming heap of beef stroganoff beside the potatoes and drenched the mess in gravy. Then, remembering how he'd promised himself he'd start eating healthier, he added a scoop of mixed vegetables, which looked withered and small from months in a freezer. Slowly, he walked to the end of the line and poured himself a Coke at the soda machine, putting off the inevitable.

Suddenly, Steel stood at his elbow. "Come join us." He pointed at the table where his girlfriend sat, along with Margot and a group of other pilots he didn't know. Michael had a brief urge to tell Steel to go fuck himself. But he'd already bitched enough about Phyllis ruining his life. He shouldn't bitch when people tried to help.

"Thanks." He sat at the end of the table, next to Margot, the only member of the group who looked older than thirty. Windchaser laughed, and muttered something to one of her friends, who also laughed.

"Soda?" Margot said. "Brave choice, Michael. The coats will kill you for it at your next physical."

She lifted a glass of milk. Michael felt like she was speaking some foreign language. "Why?"

"Coats get strict as hell about the whole calcium thing. We use too much in fixing our bones."

Since when was what he ate other people's business?

"I'll be right back." Steel stood. "The arch commander wants me." He approached the raised platform at the back of the room where Night, Quickfingers, and Cliffdiver had their table. Night frowned when she saw him coming.

"Margot," Michael said under his breath. "What exactly was the arch commander going to announce this morning?"

"Who'd been promoted to war commander." She wiped tomato sauce off her mouth with her sleeve. "You know. The officer who'll lead us into battle if the penguins fly north and invade Anchorage. Steel thinks he deserves the position because he gives a shit, which I guess he's pretty good at doing. But the arch commander is keeping the position open so you can have a fair shot at the promotion yourself, if you want it."

Promotion. A chance to lead these people? Just thinking about what that role would require made him want to laugh. Steel belonged here. He was welcome to it.

"Hello," said a deep voice with a thick Spanish accent.

Michael turned to find two pilots staring at him, a tall blond man, and the shorter, darker man who'd spoken. He had two short horns sticking out of his skull. Are those real? The blond had the faint outline of a removed swastika tattoo on his forehead.

"Hello," Michael said in return. Instinctively, he got to his feet and stepped away from his chair. This doesn't look like the welcoming committee.

"I'm Bearpaw. This is my friend Spikedancer. We'd like to officially welcome you to the Wing and invite you out for drinks Saturday night." Bearpaw grinned, showing his teeth. He reminded Michael of a pitbull getting ready to spring. But what else could he do? Only talk to Margot for the rest of his life?

"Sure," he said.

Spikedancer stepped forward and drove his fist into Michael's jaw.

The blow had come so unexpectedly that he couldn't roll away from it. His head spun as he stumbled back, banging into the table. Blindly, he grabbed his tray and swung it in Spikedancer's direction. Food flew.

Spikedancer ducked under the tray and seized Michael's wrist. With a vicious twist, he slammed Michael's face down into the table. Michael tasted blood from where he'd bitten his tongue.

"Welcome to the Wing," Spikedancer grunted, and let go.

"See you at seven Saturday. We meet by the stairs," Bearpaw replied. They walked away.

Michael glanced at the officers' table. Quickfingers was reading a magazine. Night was jotting down notes on a piece of paper. Cliffdiver raised an eyebrow that clearly said 'figure it out yourself'.

He sat, heart racing. Those fuckers meant it. They'd invited him out for drinks and tried to kick his ass. What the fuck is this place?

Further down the table, Steel and Windchaser looked like they could barely contain their laughter.

"Ignore them," Margot said. "It's not personal. They just want you to know your place."

"I could have taken them both if they'd given me any warning." If he'd been ready for that slight, telegraphing quiver on Spikedancer's face, Michael could have rolled away from the blow and kept enough sense to drive the tray into his neck. Then he could have shoved the reeling Spikedancer into Bearpaw, knocking them both down. He'd done that before, in a bar fight fifteen years ago. But for Spikedancer, starting a fight was apparently as easy as shaking hands. I bet Phyllis found him in prison.

"Arch Commander Nighteyes wants to see you," Steel told Margot, who nodded and stood.

Two minutes later, she returned, frowning. "Michael gets to shovel the whelps' den as punishment for slapping Dr. Harper. I get to escort him as punishment for running too slow."

Michael stood. Could be worse. At least the hole in the back of his head was closed, indicating Veick was miles away. The wyvern would probably have laughed to see Michael get his ass kicked.

"You slapped Dr. Harper?" For the first time all evening, Windchaser met Michael's eyes. "Jackass."

"She deserved it," Bladestayer, her friend, said. "Chopping three people's heads off?"

That hit him like a punch in the gut. "What?"

"Well, not by herself, with those little arms." Bladestayer pressed her elbows to her chest and mimed clumsy swinging motions. The rest of the group laughed. "She had Borghild do it. Three traitors. True story."

Margot grabbed his arm. "Come on, shit shoveler. We've got work to do."