Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It took hours to empty the shipping crate, removing the individual packages, opening them, often listening to Sato explain what we’d just uncovered.

There were little plastic capsules, impossibly small for my alular claws to grip, with random cartoony figures inside called gacha toys. Gachapon, I learned, had been the hot thing in Japan for decades—since the 1960s!—and were still popular among all ages. They sold the things out of vending machines, online, and even had a popular streaming show devoted to them. The gacha toys baffled me, but captivated Rhaeshana, who declared she’d take a few dozen of the adorable little things. She’d give them a good home among her other collectibles and art supplies.

Other items made more sense to my eyes, like the flock of bobble-headed dracomorph desktop figures. The colonel and the VIPs claimed most of these. They were all in shades of blue, rather like our Cohort, and their heads bounced around comically when given a light swat. Maybe I was being a little paranoid, but I suspected there was a deeper reason why the colonel wanted a few of them on his desk. We had been known to get on his nerves, from time to time.

Thaelos immediately laid claim to a set of intricately detailed Ten Force Time Squad statues, along with the latest print editions of the manga. Hardly one to be held back by the minor issue of not being able to read Japanese, he’d make do with the machine vision translation app on his personal tablet. Furthermore, he informed us, these editions were extremely rare: the controversial “missing arc” that hadn’t seen a US release due to an ongoing legal dispute between distributors. They would sit in a place of honor among his vast manga library.

Sheriff Higgs worked with the colonel to carefully unroll a hand-painted wall scroll, nearly five feet long and two feet wide. The old lawman gazed at the image and gave an appreciative whistle. Rendered in a muted color palette with traditional brushes, the image on the scroll depicted a stylized modern city scene with a forest-shrouded mountain in the background, all under a blue sky with white clouds. Dominating the center, encircled by a snarling male and female dracomorph, a set of kanji symbols begged for translation.

“This was made by a very talented local artist,” Sato explained. She went on, pointing with her finger. “This shows their city, and the mountain they live near. These two dragons are probably the leaders of the Ryu-no-kyoudai, possibly a mated pair. The symbols translate roughly as ‘good fortune and strength with guardians of home.’”

“Outstanding,” the colonel growled. “That’s a message we can all get behind.”

“There is a note,” Sato said, fishing a slip of paper from the scroll’s packing sleeve. She read it silently and smiled. “I see. Yes. These wall scrolls are made by artists who live in cities with attached Hinan, and are displayed in briefing rooms or other common areas of the Hinan. They are… not exactly ‘blessed.’ Perhaps ‘lucky’ is the word?”

“I’ll see to it that this is put up in a place where all Enclave personnel can see it.”

A similar wall scroll was addressed to Mayor Caldwell, and showed a scene of bucolic rice paddies and farmers, with a Hinan in the misty background. Its symbols read “peaceful growth and future.”

“This is beautiful work,” the mayor said. “I’ll have it framed and hung in the town hall. It’ll look good there, a connection with our sister city.” She smiled. “A gesture like this requires a response, of course.”

“Yes, ma’am. We’ll have things to send back.”

“I’ll talk to the school superintendent. Spread word to the civic clubs. See what the town can put together.” She peered into the bottom of the crate, pursed her lips. “What’s that?”

The thing was flat, sealed away in packing film, and covered almost the entire area of the crate. I sat on my haunches and hefted it with my alular claws, felt it bend and flex in my grip. The whole thing drooped like a soggy noodle as I hauled it out of the crate.

A rug, maybe? Some sort of decorative wall-hanging, like a tapestry? That’d be nice. The Cohort liked tapestries, or any kind of wall hanging. The bigger the better. Not so much because they were pretty, but because they helped cut down on distracting echoes inside our hangars.

But whatever this thing was, it didn’t feel like a rug or wall-hanging. Not heavy enough.

I slit open the thick film with a claw and peeled it away, then blinked in confusion at the expanse of folded cloth before me. It was black, trimmed in a silvery gray, and of a fine weave. “A blanket? A rrrug?”

“Oh!” Sato’s eyes lit up. “This is a draping! It is clothing worn by the Ryu-no-kyoudai.”

Soline’s head snapped up. “Clothes? Japanese dragons have clothesss?”

“Try it onnn, Cy,” Rhaeshana urged. “See if it fitsss.”

I needed no prompting and was already shaking the garment loose, getting a feel for what went where. The draping reminded me of a giant poncho, with a hole big enough for my neck to pass through, and open sides. But the similarities ended there. This garment had an open collar, magnetic snaps, and a baffling cut. I had no idea how to put the thing on.

Sato, however, did.

Following her instructions, I sat back on my haunches, oriented the draping, and flung its back over my broad shoulders. Its front draped—how the garment got its name, I guess—across my keel. I secured the collar with its magnetic snaps, then reached down and secured the bottom in place just above my hips. Tugging the draping straight, I stood and gave myself a shake to let things fall in place. With the eyes of my Cohort upon me, I straightened, arched my neck high, and puffed out my chest.

For the first time in several years, I wore clothes. Granted, it was more like a bathrobe, and my lower half was exposed for all to see, but still: clothes! The Japanese draping was a little loose on me, but I definitely appreciated the fashion. It covered my back and shoulders, yet allowed my wings full range of movement, while the front was tailored in such a way as to conform to my broad, deep chest. With the front and back secured, the draping tapered along my body to stop just short of my hind legs. Strategically placed pockets meant I could even carry some items with me, and access them with either my alular claws or my mouth.

I shifted this way and that, turned in a slow circle for the benefit of the others. The cloth whispered as I moved, its black, heavy duty fabric smooth against my scales. Its style was conservative and efficient, the lighter colored trim complimenting the lines of my body. Tailored properly, a draping could easily fit under our standard utility harness and rig.

“This feels ssso good,” I said. “Yesssenia, look!” I flared my wings and trilled for my rider. “I’m wearrring clothesss!”

“I like it,” Tenebraxyl pronounced. “Elegant, aaand it reinforrrcesss our connection to humanity. I waaant one. More than one.” His green eyes glittered hungrily. “I want a clossset, aaand I want it full of clothesss like that!”

The others rumbled their enthusiastic agreement.

Rhaeshana gazed down at the colonel, her breaths puffing white in the cold air. “Sssir, what will it take to have these made here, or imported from Japannn?”

“We’ll make it happen,” he said, and turned to the mayor to begin coordinating the details.

I reached up, ready to undo the snaps on the draping. “This isss a little big for me—”

Rhae shook her head. “No, Cy. It’s yoursss. We’ll have our own. And besssides, it looks good on you!”

My nostrils burned as I bowed my head in acceptance and respect.

We always gathered for Movie Night in Varanael’s hangar. It was a tradition we’d maintained since our time together at the metamorphosis treatment facility, coming together whenever she played a movie in the common area. To improve the experience at the Enclave, she had a superb sound system, a slick QHD projection unit and improvised screen, a wide space in which to sprawl with our people, and piles of cushions and pillows. Yes, cramming six of us with our people into one hangar made things awfully cozy, but it was worth it—Varanael was easily the best cook of the Cohort, if not the entire Enclave.

While the big dragoness worked culinary magic with her industrial air fryers in the food prep area, we listened to Yuzuki Sato break character and speak of home. The opening of the crate left her feeling homesick, and with our hangars now decorated with products and art from her homeland, we were more than eager to listen and learn how the Change affected Japan.

Flanked by Tenebraxyl’s alular claws, she sat cross-legged on a pillow with her back against his chest, and sipped hot green tea from an Enclave-issue mug. She nodded absently as Thaelos spoke.

“Ssso, the Changed don’t take new names in Japan? They jussst add ‘Ryu’ at the end? Like, if a guy named Kenji were to Change... as a dracomorph he’d be Kenji-Ryu?”

“Mmm.” She bobbed her head. “This is so. Being one with the community is very important. Taking a new name is common in superhero manga and anime, but this is so the superhero’s loved ones are protected. For most Changed in Japan, they are still viewed as part of their human family, still part of the community, so they keep their name and add the suffix ‘Ryu.’ Upon placement at a Hinan, many times the families of the Ryu-no-kyoudai will move there to be with them. The government may fund this.”

The more I learned of how the Japanese handled the Change, the more I liked them. If American culture were more like the Japanese, those first Containment Sites would never have existed, and we’d be working closer with the public. We’d still have our families, wouldn’t have to rely on long-distance encrypted video calls to talk to them… Or bear the heartache of being Distanced¹ from them.

Sato lowered her gaze and smiled. “In Japan, the Changed are viewed with a certain… envy? Stories that involve transformation, or traveling to another world, are very popular…”

Thaelos perked up. “Henshin and isssekai, right?”

A brief dip of the head. “This is so, yes. When someone undergoes the Change, they live both stories. As in henshin, they are transformed. As in isekai, they now live in a new world, in a new place, doing things impossible for a human. Many cities and towns view their Ryu-no-kyoudai, as well as their riders, almost like celebrities. There are enthusiast clubs, local mangas and light novels, even streaming shows devoted to them. Though, it must be said, this is not to say their lives are easy. As with you—” she rested a hand on Tenebraxyl’s wing, suggesting all American dracomorphs “—Japanese dragons are focused, driven, and fly under dangerous conditions. The winters in the mountains can be deadly, and still the Ryu-no-kyoudai and their riders fly to protect their cities, or rescue those in need.”

“Ah like’s em already,” Sarah Frost drawled. She’d stripped out of her jacket and tucked herself under one of Thaelos’s wings for warmth. “They’s sent videos from their Cohort, ain’t they?”

Sato nodded again, sipped her tea. She pulled up her tablet and traced a finger along its screen. “Yes. We have hundreds of video files to watch. Of these, twenty are from the members of the Ryu-no-kyoudai, as well as their PEOs.”

“Videosss wait!” Varanael boomed, just before she cracked the seals on her air fryers.

The hissing of the appliances echoed from the curving walls of the hangar, lingered for a long moment, and faded, replaced by a warm and inviting scent that reminded me of good times from Before. Buttered, gourmet popcorn. Mounds of it. My nostrils flared at the same time my Yesenia put her head back and breathed in the aroma, licked her lips, and rubbed her hands together.

“Come, come. Tasty snacksss. Then videosss.”

Twenty minutes later—and after much maneuvering and jockeying for the best position in line to receive our ration of Var’s famous popcorn—we all piled in before the screen. Munching noisily, we watched as Sato mirrored her tablet’s screen to the QHD projector, navigated to the first of the videos, and started the playback.

I recognized Haruto Sasaki immediately. Looked like the kid hadn’t aged a day, though maybe he’d put on a few pounds since Yesenia and I last saw him. He still wore glasses, still had that bird’s nest of black hair, still had that Haruto grin. The boy stood in front of what appeared to be a teacher’s desk, with a floor-to-ceiling wall panel in the background. A classroom in his school?

Haruto bowed. Grinned again, and waved. “Hello, Dragon-san!” he began.

“Hello, Harrruto.”

I smiled and watched with the rest of my Cohort as our friend from across the ocean introduced us to the videos of his city, its people, its Hinan, and its Ryu-no-kyoudai.

Our sister city.

Our sister Cohort.