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Windwalker. Human by Day. Dragon by Night.

’Subject Thirteen has completed his metamorphous, completing stage four. Even at this point, the subject has grown to just shy of two meters in hight, with a three meter wingspan, equal to his length from snout to tail tip. Additionally, while the subject’s muscle mass has obviously increased, his weight seemed to have decreased slightly. It’s possible that from examining our further along failures that the metamorphous has altered it’s bone chemistry, making it’s bones lighter while making them strong…’

There was a muffled bang from outside the room. The man, his benefactors only know as the Monster Maker looked up from his notebook, looking right at the reenforced door that was the only access into or out of the room.

A streak of red began to appear, like someone took a welding flame to the lock. The man took a revolver, loaded it with six rounds, and closed the revolver. He aimed it at the door.

It opened.

He emptied the gun into what ever was standing there. The man fell forward. Dead.

But too late did he realise that black leather clad man was one of the mercenaries that the Monster Maker hired to secure the facility and keep the subjects in check. Too late did he see the gunshot wound to the head, execution style. His executioner still had the silencer attached to the pistol. He heard the surpassed gunshot just before it hit his chest and ripped though his heart, not stopping until it comes to rest between his vertebrae.

The boy lowered again. He looked no older then fifteen, but his steel grey eyes were weary with centuries of wonder and horror. He was dressed in a black leather duster, over a blue oxford tee, it’s long sleeves poking out from under the sleeves of the duster and a pair of navy jeans, the denim torn around the knees, and a pair of high top converse.

He ran a ran though his wild and unruly brown hair before taking a clip out of his pocket, and replacing the spent clip in his USP as he kicked the door closed. On the far wall, there was line of photos, each with red crosses though them. Beside them were a series of dates, numbers and observations. The last one, number thirteen did not have a red cross though it. It was a photo of a caucasian boy, six or seven years old, the youngest on the list.

The book that the man was writing in shortly before his death was closed, it’s contents protected by the leather cover.

The boy hosted the weapon and picked up the book. Flipping though the pages, he was unfazed by the rather graphic content.

Subjects one though three had no photos. All the details ended with ‘Subject melted.’

Subject four: A homeless man, a war vet died peacefully. His skin was only slightly discoloured, like he died of CO poisoning.

Subject five: An old woman, her body looked twisted and mangled, like her bones were broken in multiple places, and put back together roughly.

Subject six: An american american teenager was more brutally killed, like his organs, heart, lungs, liver, have swollen into over inflated balloons and ruptured the skin before exploding.

Subject seven: A latino young man with prison tattoos. His muscle mass had bulked up too rapidly, resulting in his body to eat away his internal organs to keep up with his growth, even rotting away his brain.

Subject eight: A lot more successful. An asian woman, with a massively corrupted skeleton. The noted cause of death was the skeleton was deforming to rapidly.

Subject nine: Unrecognisable from all the ruby scales covering his body, but his/her face was still flat and human.

Subject ten: Another young woman, caucasian, but the scales only reached her neck, and her face was half formed into a muzzle.

Subject eleven: Photo of a large reptile with eight legs, five tails, two pairs of wings, and a whole spectrum of scales.

Subject twelve: A more ‘normal’ looking dragon. But she began coughing up blood the night she finished her metamorphous. She was dead by morning.

Subject thirteen… To be unveiled to the benefactor.

The accompanying photo was of a young, anthro dragon, black scales, scared out of his mind, but very much alive.

Sleep did not come easy for the forsaken child, but weariness and exhaustion had it’s way. The uncomfortable position he was in was nothing compared to his need for sleep. The sound of gunshots however, made short work of his rest as two quite rounds hit a man.

The smell of blood made his own race. A figure approached his case. He didn’t put up a fight. He just wanted it to be over. The pain. The torture. The hell.

The loneliness.
He heard the latch scrape, and the hinges squeak. The cage was opened and he was pulled out on to the cold concrete ground.

A soft voice reached his ears.

“It’s okay little WindWalker. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.”

Generally, he was lifted up and he could hear footsteps move under his weight.

Eventually, the smell of blood, dirt and sweat was gone. He felt warmth on his scales. Sunlight.

“Blake!” He heard another voice. Deep. Rough.

He heard a hiss.

“I thought they were all dead.” The voice said, in an attempt of a whisper.

“So did I.” The figure said. “Get Koraian.”

There was a pause as he was lied out on something soft.

“Can you hear me?”

The child tried to make words. His throat was sore and dry from screaming. What he said came out almost as deep as the other voice.

“Yes.”

“We’re going to get you some help.” The figure assure him. “What’s your name?”

Again. the child tried to make words, but only coming out with “Al…”

“Al? Alec? Albert?”

“Alex.” He finally got out. “Ru… Rus…” The rest came out in a hiss.

“Rush? Alex Rush?”

The child nodded before blacking out.