Spike Wyvern's eyes snapped open, glowing green in the darkness. His hand shot out, stopping the metronome's rhythmic ticking. He bolted upright, chest heaving as he drew in a deep, ragged breath.
Sunlight filtered through a nearby window, illuminating Spike's draconic form. Purple scales covered most of his body, shimmering faintly in the low light. Across his chest and stomach, lighter green scales formed a distinctive pattern. His claws, once sharp and menacing, had been carefully filed down to rounded tips. A mane of unruly spikey green hair cascaded down his neck and back, falling across his broad shoulders. His tail twitched involuntarily, sending a spray of dust dancing in the sunlight.
Spike wore only a pair of black sweat pants. Around one wrist, a watch glinted, its face turned inward. His reptilian eyes scanned the room as the remnants of his dream faded away. He let out another heavy sigh, this one tinged with relief. Reaching out, Spike gently picked up the metronome. His voice was low and gravelly as he spoke to the empty room.
"One hundred and fifty-eight..." he said quietly.
He paused, his gaze distant as if making a mental calculation. When he spoke again, there was a mix of pride and weariness in his tone.
"One hundred and fifty-eight days without another incident."
Spike's clawed fingers tightened slightly around the metronome as he aimlessly looked around, the weight of those 158 days evident in his expression. Spike emerged onto the rooftop, the warm morning sun caressing his scales. He squinted slightly, his eyes adjusting to the bright light. Taking a deep breath, he savored the crisp morning air and the beginnings of the day's hustle and bustle.
His gaze swept across the sprawling cityscape before him. Metamorph City stretched out along the steep hillsides of the Changeling Badlands, a dense patchwork of colorful buildings clinging to the terrain. The city was a labyrinth of narrow alleys, steep staircases, and tightly packed structures that seemed to defy gravity. Thousands of small, multi-story houses and shops were stacked haphazardly on top of each other, creating a vibrant, almost organic tapestry of urban life. Corrugated metal roofs glinted in the morning sun, while clotheslines crisscrossed between buildings, adding splashes of color to the scene. Despite the early hour, the city was already alive with activity. The sounds of people going about their daily lives echoed up from the maze-like streets below. In the distance, where the city met the barren Badlands, the contrast was stark and dramatic.
Spike twisted the cap off his soda bottle and took a long swig, his eyes never leaving the breathtaking view before him. Metamorph City might be chaotic and crowded, but it was home. And for now, it was safe from the beast that lurked within him. Spike finished his soda, savoring the last few drops before heading back inside. As he descended the stairs, the sound of excited paws scrabbling on the floor greeted him. A medium-sized dog with a shaggy coat and floppy ears came bounding up to him, tail wagging furiously.
"Hey there, Spike Jr.," Spike chuckled, reaching down to ruffle the dog's fur. Spike Jr., an enthusiastic mutt that looked to be part Golden Retriever and part something scrappier, nudged his hand affectionately.
"Alright, alright," Spike said, gently pushing past his eager companion. "Let's get some breakfast going, shall we?"
The dragon made his way to the small kitchen area, Spike Jr. following close at his heels. He pulled out a frying pan and some eggs from the fridge, his claws moving with surprising dexterity as he cracked the eggs into a bowl. As Spike whisked the eggs and added a pinch of salt and pepper, Spike Jr. sat patiently by his food bowl, his tail thumping rhythmically against the floor. The sizzle of the pan and the aroma of cooking eggs soon filled the small apartment. Once the eggs were done, Spike slid them onto a plate. He glanced down at Spike Jr., who was now looking up at him with hopeful eyes.
"Okay, buddy. Just a little bit," Spike said, scooping a small portion of his scramble. He carefully lowered it to Spike Jr.'s level, letting the dog eat the treat from his claw.
"There you go. Don't get used to it though," Spike added with a grin, grabbing a fork and digging into his own breakfast.
Spike lands hard on his back with a thud, the impact forcing the air from his lungs. Above him stands a lithe, dark-colored changeling with piercing blue eyes, his expression a mix of concentration and satisfaction.
"Good, Spike. Very good," the changeling says, offering a hand to help Spike up. "Your technique is improving, but your control is what truly impresses me."
Spike takes the offered hand, pulling himself to his feet. "Thanks, Master Chitin," he replies, slightly out of breath but clearly pleased. Master Chitin, despite his fearsome changeling appearance, has a calm and nurturing presence. His carapace bears intricate patterns that speak of years of experience and wisdom. The two move to the center of the dojo, sitting cross-legged on the mat facing each other. Spike's breathing is steady, his heart rate controlled despite the intense sparring session.
"Now, let us work on your breathing," Master Chitin begins, his voice low and soothing as he placed a hand over his chest. “Your emotions come from here, anger, fear, they’re no good”
Master Chitin then demonstrates a fast and rapid breathing technique, his carapace rising and falling quickly with each breath.
"Watch closely, Spike," he instructs. "This technique engages your diaphragm. It's not just about moving air in and out of your lungs. You must breathe from deep within."
Spike observes intently, trying to mimic the master's technique.
"The key is to use your diaphragm," Master Chitin explains. "Feel it contract as you inhale, pushing your abdomen out. Then relax it as you exhale, letting your abdomen fall back in. This rapid breathing can help you control your heart rate and, in turn, your emotions."
After demonstrating for a few more seconds, Master Chitin pauses and looks directly at Spike.
"The best way to control your anger is to control your body. Control your pulse."
Spike nods, understanding the importance of the lesson. He begins to perform the breathing technique, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he focuses on using his diaphragm. Suddenly, without warning, Master Chitin's hand whips out, slapping Spike across the face. The unexpected hit causes Spike's watch to beep as his heart rate suddenly spikes. Spike's eyes widen in surprise, but he doesn't lose focus. He continues the rapid breathing, trying to regain control of his pulse. Just as he seems to be getting it under control, Master Chitin slaps him again, harder this time. The watch beeps faster, indicating Spike's heart rate is climbing dangerously. Spike's scales begin to shimmer faintly, a sign of the internal struggle. He keeps breathing, fighting to maintain control. His claws dig into his knees as he concentrates. Finally, Spike lifts a hand to stop Chitin, his eyes still closed in intense focus. He looks down at his watch - the display reads 146 beats per minute. As he continues the breathing exercise, the number starts to drop, eventually returning to normal.
Master Chitin nods approvingly. "Good, Spike. You're learning. Remember, no matter what happens, you have the power to bring yourself back to center."
Spike lets out a long, controlled breath, the shimmering of his scales fading. He looks up at his master with a mix of exhaustion and gratitude.
Spike stands in front of an open locker in the employee area, carefully placing his belongings inside. The air is thick with the sweet scent of various sodas and the constant hum of machinery. As Spike reaches to close his locker door, a group of three changelings suddenly appears behind him. Without warning, they shove into him roughly, causing the dragon to lose his balance and crash into his locker with a loud clang. Spike's scales scrape against the metal as he stumbles, his clawed hands grasping at the locker to steady himself. He takes a deep breath, fighting to keep his composure as his watch begins to beep softly, indicating a rise in his heart rate. The trio of changelings glance back, smirking at Spike's predicament. Their eyes gleam with mischief and a hint of malice.
"Watch where you're standing, scale-face," one of them sneers.
"Yeah, you're blocking the way," another adds with a chuckle.
The third changeling just gives Spike a dismissive look before they all turn and saunter away, heading towards their workstations.
Spike closes his eyes for a moment, focusing on his breathing as he remembers Master Chitin's lessons. His claws dig slightly into the metal of the locker as he fights to control the anger rising within him. The beeping of his watch gradually slows as he regains his composure. Opening his eyes, Spike straightens up, closes his locker, and takes another deep breath. He looks in the direction the changelings went, his expression a mix of frustration and resignation. Then, squaring his shoulders, he turns and heads to his own workstation, determined not to let the incident ruin his day or, more importantly, his control. Morning soon fades to afternoon as Spike is focused on his maintenance work, his clawed hands moving deftly among the machinery, when a commanding voice cuts through the factory noise.
"Dragon! Over here!"
Spike looks up to see Chrysalis, the factory owner, beckoning him from the second floor. He quickly sets down his tools and makes his way up the metal staircase. Chrysalis, an imposing changeling with a regal bearing, leads Spike to a control switch box. Sparks are flying from it intermittently, and the conveyor belt below stands still, bottles piling up.
"Can you handle this?" Chrysalis asks, her tone a mixture of hope and skepticism.
Spike nods confidently. "I can handle this, ma'am."
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pair of glasses, sliding them onto his snout. Leaning in close to the faulty switch box, Spike begins to work. His claws move with surprising delicacy as he adjusts wires and tightens connections. After a couple of minutes of intense focus and careful tinkering, Spike steps back. He removes his glasses and presses the green button on the switch box. With a loud hum, the conveyor belt springs to life, bottles once again moving smoothly down the line.
Turning to Chrysalis, Spike explains, "I've got it working again, but it's just a temporary fix. You really need a new control switch."
Chrysalis looks at the now-functioning line, then back at Spike. She lets out a laugh, shaking her head. "A new control switch? Dragon, I need a new factory."
Her laughter has a hint of weariness to it, suggesting the challenges of keeping the aging factory running are wearing on her. Spike chuckles along with Chrysalis as he begins to close up the switch box. Suddenly, he winces in pain as the sharp edge of the box slices into his finger.
"Shit!" Spike curses, his eyes widening in fear as he watches a single drop of his blood fall onto the conveyor belt below.
Panic grips him as he shouts, "Chrysalis! Stop the machine, now!"
Without waiting for a response, Spike rushes down the stairs, taking them two at a time. His heart races as he reaches the conveyor belt, scanning the bottles frantically.
"Come on, come on," he mutters, his eyes darting back and forth.
The belt slowly grinds to a halt as Chrysalis hits the emergency stop. Spike continues his frantic search until he spots it - a small, dark droplet on the metal surface of the belt, thankfully not on any of the bottles. Spike lets out a heavy sigh of relief. He quickly pulls out a rag from his pocket and carefully wipes up the potentially toxic blood, making sure not to leave any trace. Once he's certain the blood is gone, Spike reaches into another pocket and retrieves a small bottle of super glue. With practiced movements, he applies the glue to the cut on his finger, sealing it shut. As he finishes, Spike looks up to see Chrysalis watching him with a mixture of concern and curiosity. He forces a smile, trying to appear calm despite the close call.
"Just a small cut," he says, holding up his glued finger. "All taken care of now. We can start the line back up."
Chrysalis nods slowly, her eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to puzzle something out. But she doesn't press the issue, instead moving to restart the conveyor belt. Spike takes a deep breath, his heartrate gradually returning to normal. He knows he just dodged a potentially disastrous situation, and silently thanks god before going back to work. However, unbeknownst to Spike, one bottle further down the line has caught a drop of his blood. It continues its journey, being filled with soda and packaged, slipping past unnoticed.
Later that day, as the sun begins to set, Spike is preparing to leave the factory. He's gathering his things when he notices a commotion near the exit. The trio of changelings from earlier are surrounding a female changeling with long, hot pink hair tied back in a ponytail. Spike and the changeling woman, Ocellus, exchange glances. She looks relieved to see him, a silent plea for help in her eyes. Spike starts to walk away, not wanting to cause trouble, but then he overhears the conversation.
"Come on, sweetheart," the leader of the changeling trio says, his tone slimy and persistent. "Just one drink. What's the harm?"
Ocellus shakes her head, clearly uncomfortable. "I've already said no, Thrift. Please, just leave me alone."
"Don't be like that," Thrift insists, stepping closer. "We could have a real good time."
Seeing Ocellus's discomfort grow, Spike decides he can't walk away. He approaches the group, his voice calm but firm.
"Hey, Ocellus," Spike says, ignoring the trio. "Are we still on for dinner tonight?"
The leader, Thrift, looks at Spike with irritation in his eyes, waving his hand dismissively. "Get lost, Lizard."
Spike ignores him, keeping his focus on Ocellus. "That a yes or a no?" he asks calmly.
Thrift, clearly angered by being ignored, starts walking towards Spike. "You got a hearing problem?"
Spike responds coolly, "No problem."
Thrift's face contorts with anger. "Then beat it, Lizard!" He shoves Spike hard, causing the dragon to stumble back a step.
Spike's watch begins to beep as his heartrate increases. He takes a deep breath, fighting to maintain his composure. "You don't want to do this," Spike warns, his voice low and controlled. "Trust me."
Thrift, oblivious to the danger, raises his fist, ready to start a fight. The tension in the air is palpable as everyone holds their breath, waiting to see what will happen next. Suddenly, a commanding voice rings out from above.
"What's going on down there?" Chrysalis shouts from the second floor, her tone sharp and authoritative.
Everyone freezes, including Thrift, his fist still raised mid-air. All eyes turn towards the factory owner, who's now making her way down the stairs, her expression stern and questioning. As Chrysalis approached, Ocellus seizes the moment. She swiftly runs past the trio, grabbing Spike's arm and pulling him away from the tense situation.
Once they're a safe distance away, Ocellus turns to Spike, gratitude shining in her eyes. "Thank you, Spike," she says softly before placing a gentle kiss on his cheek.
Spike's face flush slightly at the unexpected gesture.
"If you're still free next week," Ocellus adds with a smile, "I'd gladly take you up on that dinner request."
Before Spike can respond, she waves goodbye and heads home, leaving him with a mix of surprise and warmth.
Spike walks up to one of his few friends in Metamorph City, Thorax, a changeling with a friendlier demeanor than his brother.
"How's your brother doing?" Spike asks, concern evident in his voice.
Thorax sighs, shaking his head. "Pharynx's driving me up a wall, as usual." Both let out light chuckles, sharing a moment of understanding.
Thorax's expression then turns more serious, his tone becoming downtrodden. "About that flower you were looking for... Couldn't find it."
Spike's face falls. "Damn... Man, I really..." He trails off as he notices Thorax starting to chuckle.
"You're messing with me?" Spike asks, hope creeping into his voice.
Thorax laughs, pulling out something wrapped in a large leaf from his pocket. "Have I ever let you down before, man?"
He hands over the leaf-bound flower to Spike, whose eyes light up with excitement and relief.
"You're a lifesaver, man," Spike says gratefully, pulling Thorax into a warm hug.
As they embrace, the tension from the earlier confrontation melts away, replaced by the comfort of true friendship. Spike holds the precious flower carefully, knowing it represents hope for his ongoing struggle.
Spike races through the streets of Metamorph City, clutching the leaf-wrapped flower close to his chest. He bursts into his modest home, slightly out of breath but excited. Spike Jr. bounds up to him, tail wagging furiously. Spike kneels down, presenting the flower to his loyal companion.
"See that, buddy? See that?" Spike says, his voice filled with hope. "This is my ticket out of here."
The dragon then moves to his bed, reaching beneath it to pull out a worn backpack. From inside, he retrieves a laptop, handling it with care as if it's a precious artifact. Settling down, Spike boots up the computer and navigates to an encrypted chat program. But before he initiates contact, his eyes are drawn to a newspaper clipping left inside his laptop.
The clipping shows a photograph of a unicorn mare with a striking pink and purple mane. Her intelligent eyes seem to gaze directly at Spike from behind the protective glass of a laboratory. The headline above the photo reads: "Brilliant Scientist Makes Breakthrough in Genetic Research."
Spike's expression softens, a mix of sadness and regret washing over his features as he gazes at the image. His clawed hand reaches out, gently touching the edge of the clipping.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, barely audible. "I'm trying to make it right."
Taking a deep breath, Spike turns back to his laptop. He initiates the encrypted chat, his fingers hovering over the keyboard as he prepares to contact his most trusted ally in his quest for a cure. Spike Jr. whines softly, sensing his master's emotional turmoil. The dragon reaches down to scratch behind the dog's ears, drawing comfort from his faithful companion before he starts typing on the secure chat.
Mr. Purple: Blue, are you there?
Spike carefully unbinds the flower, revealing its long stem and a bounty of white petals. He gently places it beside his laptop as he continues the encrypted conversation:
Mr. Blue: Mr. Purple!
Mr. Blue: Good hearing from you again, my mysterious friend.
Mr. Purple: I found it.
Mr. Blue: At long last.
Mr. Blue: It’s a lovely little flower, isn’t it?
Spike looks over the flower and smiles.
Mr. Purple: It's more than lovely, Blue. It's hope.
Mr. Blue: Be sure to try a high dose.
Mr. Blue: Good luck, my friend :)
With renewed determination, Spike begins his work. He takes a small pair of scissors and carefully cuts the petals, letting them fall into a ceramic mortar. Once all the petals are collected, he begins grinding them with a pestle, his movements precise and measured. Spike then embarks on a series of complex scientific procedures, mixing the ground petals with various chemicals and solutions. His claws move with surprising dexterity as he measures, combines, and processes the ingredients. Finally, he places the resulting concoction into a single vial and sets it in a homemade centrifuge. While it spins, Spike makes a small cut on his finger and places a drop of his blood on a microscope slide.
With bated breath, Spike takes a syringe and adds a drop of the centrifuged solution to his blood sample. He carefully places the slide under the microscope and peers through the eyepiece. At first, what he sees fills him with hope. The radiation in his blood seems to lessen, and the red blood cells appear to return to normal.
"Come on, come on. Please work," Spike chants, his voice barely above a whisper.
For a moment, it seems like success is within his grasp as he observes no signs of his usual poisoned blood. But then, in a heartbeat, everything changes. The green tint in his blood cells returns with a vengeance, more potent than before. The reaction is so violent that it actually cracks the slide. Spike pulls back from the microscope, his expression a mix of disbelief and crushing disappointment.
"No…" Spike growls, the weight of another failed attempt settling heavily on his shoulders.
“Dammit!” He slams his fist on the table in frustration, causing Spike Jr. to whine in concern and his watch to start beeping rapidly.
Once Spike calmed down he returned to his laptop to contact Mr. Blue.
Mr. Purple: Another failure
Mr. Blue: :( How much did you use?
Spike looked over to the flower stem, completely devoid of the beautiful white flowers it once had and sighed heavily before returning to the encrypted chat.
Mr. Purple: All of it.
Mr. Blue: Then it’s time to meet
Mr. Purple: Not safe
Mr. Blue: Living with GAMMA poisoning not safe.
Mr. Blue: Stop chasing flowers
Mr. Blue: Send me a blood sample
Spike however didn’t respond, he just sat quietly for a moment, staring blankly at the screen.
Mr. Blue: Can’t help if you won’t let me.
At last, Spike sighs and types a response.
Mr. Purple: Fine. I'll send the sample.
Spike leaves the chat, and draws a single vial of his toxic blood. the Dragon waisted no time in packaging the tainted sample carefully, first in a sterile leather pouch, then a small metal box lined with insulating foam. He knew he could trust Mr. Blue, but sending his irradiated blood across states carried its own risks.
The Dragon waited days for Mr. Blue’s response, anxiously pacing around his home. His laptop beeped twice indicating the arrival of a message. He swiftly returned to his laptop.
Mr. Blue: Good News
Mr. Blue: Preliminary blood tests show significant gamma reduction
Hope filled Spike's chest as he read the message, his heart pounding with a fierce rhythm that echoed that hope. He sat back in his chair, taking in the words, hardly daring to believe them. His eyes scanned over the message again and again, as if reading it multiple times could somehow make it more real.
Mr. Purple: Will it cure me?
Mr. Blue: Yes
A rush of emotions overcame Spike. Fear, relief, and hope intertwined, creating a whirlpool of feelings that threatened to pull him under.
Mr. Blue: But…
Mr. Blue: I need more DATA
“No…” Spike muttered under his breath.
Mr. Blue: Exposure levels
Mr. Blue: gamma concentration
Mr. Blue: cell saturation
Mr. Purple: Impossible. Data is not here.
Mr. Blue: Where is it?
Spike ran his claws through his unruly hair as he breathed out heavily, his gaze soon landing on the clipping before typing his response.
Mr. Purple: HOME.
Spike slowly closed the laptop, rising from the chair with a distinct feeling of dread knotted in his abdomen. Home... the last place he wanted to return to, a place he'd left years ago to save not only himself, but those he cared for.
In a dimly lit office, a white unicorn stallion with a brown mane, tail, and mustache sits behind a large desk. He's wearing a general's uniform adorned with various medals and insignias. A cigar smolders between his teeth as he reviews some paperwork. The door opens, and a mare walks in briskly. She's carrying a file folder which she places on the general's desk.
"Found something you might find interesting, sir," she says, her tone professional but with a hint of excitement.
The general looks up, raising an eyebrow. "Oh? Do tell."
"A possible Gamma sickness case," she explains. The general's ears perk up at this, his full attention now on the mare.
She continues, "It happened in Ponyville. A man drank one of those changeling sodas. Apparently, it had a little bit more kick than he was looking for."
The general takes the cigar from his mouth, tapping the ash into a nearby tray. “Where was that soda bottled?” the General asked the mare.
The mare consults her notes briefly before responding, "Metamorph City, sir. In the Changeling Badlands."
The general's expression sharpens, a mix of surprise and determination crossing his features. He leans forward, placing both hooves on his desk.
"Metamorph City..." he repeats, as if tasting the words. Then, with a sudden burst of energy, he issues his orders. "Get our agency people down there looking for a purple dragon at the bottling plant."
The mare nods, already reaching for her communicator, but the general isn't finished. He holds up a cigar to emphasize his next point:
"Tell them no contact. If he even sees them... He's as good as gone."
Author's Note
I hope you all enjoyed the first chapter of my Unstoppable Drake story. I've been wanting to work on this fic for a while now and I'll be working on this while I take a small break from Stay Tuned
