Batomic

You were smarter than your parents. They weren't bad, them, but you left as soon as you could glide for longer than a few heartbeats.

Of course, it wasn't safe out on the open sand. You were grabbed within a day, dragged away by slavers and tied in chains. They beat you, and that hardness never really left your heart. You were so little.

Then Pryle bought you, you and fifty other half-starved hatchlings.

You were sat down and taught about Stormbringer, how he brought you here for a higher purpose, a holy one, for Holy Nights. You could recite the sacred texts within three days, and Bertram tapped you.

"Keep your head down," she snapped. "Learn the wires, make a circuit, what goes on around here is none of your business."

'Stormbringer provides for those who work, and those who do not labor get lain down.'

Lain down, to Pryle, meant slaughter.

What a Holy Night. All those kids you stumbled in with held high in the air, their throats cut, blood dripping down, black in the moonlight.

Bertram watched on. Later: "It's none of your business. You get to live, that's enough. You don't question rain, do you? Keep your mouth shut and learn these breakers."

The day you knew what you were doing, Bertram left. The whole clan was in a frenzy, ripping through nests, search party after search party.

But she was gone.

You spend your days among wires, carefully weaving them together, gathering electric gold. Slaps of thunder, peals of lightning, screams of hatchlings.

You keep your head down and work.