Our Anomalies: Part One

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Part One
Drakon sighed with relief as the sunlight poured into her eyes. The stench and sight of the dark pits of Tartarus no longer stood in front of her. Here, there were no monsters hoping to snatch her up, to gryphons, harpies, arai, or empousai. Sure, they were out there, watching and waiting, probably hanging out at a Monster Donut or something.

Drakon was never sure.

Drakon wondered what this life would bring her. In her last life, she remembered being herded alongside her brethren into a bloody battle. She ended up having a dark-haired, watery type demigod sticking her with a shimmering bronze sword.

She cursed in Ancient Greek. Bah! She hated Celestial Bronze! Yellowed, several thousand year old sand would pour from the gash in her shimmering blue scales. She would defiantly flare her crown-like frill. She would hiss out of pure pain. Then the world would fade. Every day, she was either reforming, battling, or roaming. Ah, what a mighty plethora of paths to take! Day in, day out. No choices. Drakon supposed that's the life of. . . well, a drakon.

Drakon grinned ruefully, stretching. It felt good to breathe air that was not the noxious, blood red breath of the deity that was the pit. This air was scented like flower nymphs and gentle aurae. Drakon breathed in deeply, savoring each second.

She took in what was surrounding her. A city. A large one. Car horns screeched. Mortals cursed at each other as the vehicles slowly moved forward on the blackened road. People made wide paths around her, but never bothered to glance at her.

Drakon regarded them curiously. What did the Mist show to them? Perhaps she was a stray dog staring off into space, a kid riding a bicycle, or maybe a street performer. She had seen plenty of mortal street performers who did "artist's interpretation" of things (Whatever that meant, anyway.) and painted themselves gold or silver and stood, still as statues, waiting for their brethren to have the generosity to drop a few coppery-colored disks of metal. What were they called again? Drakon thought they might have been known as pennies, but she was not positive.

She flexed her talons, enjoying the sensation she felt as they dug deep into the silvery pale cement below. Drakon shook her face vigorously, then started moving.

At first, Drakon was confused. Whenever she reformed, she always was in some random place she had never seen before. She had liked Italy the best, but of course had enjoyed Canada, Brazil, and a few small islands in Indonesia.

Glancing around, she tried to think of where she could be. Large mortal population. . . temperate climate. . . as two mortals passed, she listened in on their carefree conversation. Words were tossed around between the two, words Drakon could understand but could not say, words like cafe and coffee and ''Manhattan. ''

Drakon's eyes widened. Manhattan! She remembered now. She wasn't terribly far from where she had previously been slain. Well, not far by drakon standards, anyway. She imagined mortals and demigods would take several days to reach Nebraska, a state only a few hundred miles away from New York.

But, Drakon wanted to stay where she was. Well, stay within the area, anyway. Not only did she smell the faint aroma of a demigod dwelling, the surrounding city was oddly familiar to the battleground she had formerly been advancing on, behind Kronos.

In her moment of daydreaming, small drips of acid drooled from her fangs, and she quickly snapped out of her trance. How embarrassing. Except. . . the Mist still hid her. She was nonexistent to mortals. No demigods lurked; she would have smelled them. Their scents were especially strong.

Drakon began her trek, following the scent trail, her nose close to the ground.

Hours passed. Drakon grew restless as her walk led her around winding routes, in and out of buildings, around city blocks and between the terrible traffic.

Eventually, the smell of salty spray filled the air and the city gave way to a crowded beach which grey waters lying ahead.