THANKSOBAMA

When she arrived at the lair, no one remembered— or would admit to remembering— taking part in her adoption. She simply… turned up. And with that same inexplicable suddenness, she had most of the clan entranced. When she spoke, whinging hatchlings became quiet; adult dragons stopped to listen. Her colors… they incited a sort of pride. A swell of patriotism.

But like any good Lightning clan knows, no storm ever comes before you see the clouds gathering.

Though young, she inspired respect. It was the dragons in the back of the lair who gathered around her. They were fed up, individuals of non-gened or plentiful descent who were, time and time again, denied the privilege of breeding because their children would be “worthless in this economy”. Nothing but exalt fodder.

She spoke to them and made them feel powerful, important. Rumbles and gossip of her incredible speeches began to reach the upper ranks, while the top dragons rolled their eyes. “Hope”? “Change”? Everything was fine just the way it was! If platitudes gave the back of the lair something to concern themselves with, that was fine. But if they really wanted to rise up in society, they’d pull themselves up by their wing wraps— and save up to buy their families a tertiary gene scroll.

Soon, many of her consorts were seen wearing tattoos of a curious insignia— simple loops like slip knots, always three in a row. When asked, they said it was their ticket to paradise. It proved their loyalty. “Loyalty to whom?” a non-believer would ask.

To Her.

An iri-shim Spiral hatchling, forehead inked with Her mark, wept softly as it was washed and fed in preparation for its delivery to a new lair. Most sold hatchlings are worried about being separated from their clutchmates, or that their new home will be more dangerous than their birthplace. It’s the whelps adopted by Fire clans that cry the most.

But this one only cried for Her.

When she came to see the whelp off, a surprising majority of the clan bent their knees and bowed. The leaders raised scaly, slightly fearful eyebrows. She knelt before the whinging Spiral pup and whispered to it for several minutes. The only word the crowd could make out: “Forward.”

And something about taxing the rich.

The hatchling wiped away its tears, smiling, as it was ushered off to its new home. For a moment it fluttered in the air, overlooking the world it was leaving behind. Then it shouted something— and was joined by a chorus on the ground— which chilled the one percent to the bone: