Zale sat in the old, over-stuffed, frayed-edge armchair in the living room of his small apartment, eyes shut and mind as empty as he could make it, focusing on the music blaring from the stereo. It was a good thing that apartments even in the cheap residential districts were mostly soundproof, or his neighbors would have complained probably every day of him and his bass beat. As it was, he only got complaints on really bad days, and those-- thank whatever God is out there, or I'd never make it-- didn't happen all that often. He always had it turned up as loud as he could make it without wincing, loud enough to drown out just about any sound and certainly loud enough to drown out most thoughts if he let it. Which, of course, he did.

Cannon lay across his feet, sprawled like a very large and very thick fur rug, head on his paws and tail thwapping lazily now and then. He didn't mind the music, at least, even though, as a dog, he was supposed to be more sensitive to sound. Perhaps he had gotten used to it, too, and could just ignore it. Maybe he even liked music. Did dogs like or dislike music? Zale couldn't even hazard a guess, and Cannon didn't often discuss what he liked or didn't like. He was even more taciturn than Zale himself, after all, though he had a better excuse: his vocal chords could only produce barks, growls, or whines.

It had been a long, boring day. Zale hadn't been called in to work-- in fact, he had been supposed to go in, but the shift had been cancelled-- and Ian had been out when he'd called; or, at any rate, he'd not answered his phone when Zale called. He'd tried reading a book, but he couldn't focus. He'd tried watching television for a while, then gave up in mild disgust for the utter lack of anything worth watching. After watching two somewhat stupid movies, he'd turned off the tv entirely and fallen back on his usual mainstay: music. That had been an hour ago, and he hadn't seen any reason to look for something else to do, since.

In the middle of an older song, one he knew well, came an odd ringing sound. That doesn't belong in this song, he thought lazily. Some weird remix? But no, it happened again, at a very inopportune time in the song's rhythm; not even the most avant garde recording artist or dj would put such an obnoxious sound at such a random counterpoint. No, that was the telephone.

Zale leapt to his feet-- or, he tried to, anyway. He tripped over Cannon in the process, eliciting a low-voiced yelp from the massive dog as he scrambled out of the way, and had to hop and stagger to keep from falling over. Somehow, he made it to the phone before the voice mail picked up, snatching up the receiver from where it lay on the bar between kitchen and living room and snapping it open.

"Hello?" he asked breathlessly, assuming it was Ian returning his call from earlier, or maybe Cothran asking why he wasn't at work. He was completely unprepared for the unfamiliar, and female, voice who spoke on the other end.

"Zale? Zale Runn-oh-eh?"

Whoever she was, she mispronounced his last name. "Yes?"

"You're signed up for the next off-worlder hatching, yes?" Without waiting for an answer-- not that Zale had one, he was so surprised by the question-- the stranger barreled on. "Well, you'd better get down to hatching bay two in the next couple minutes. The eggs are hatching early."

And then she hung up. Zale stared in shock at the phone. Hatching? Already? There was supposed to be another whole week--

Then, oddly, the first thought that came to his mind was: I look terrible, I can't go to a hatching looking like a slob. It had been months since he'd last thought about how he looked. But, then again, it had been months since he'd had anything important to go to. How quickly can I shave and change? he thought, but even as he did, he was already hurrying into the bedroom and tossing aside dirty or wrinkled clothes, looking for something halfway decent that was clean and not a ratty t-shirt or a hoodie. There was dismayingly little to choose from, and it had taken so long that he didn't have time for much of anything else besides throwing on the collared shirt and climbing into the one pair of jeans he owned that weren't faded or torn in some way.

Wish me luck, he thought back towards Cannon as he raced out the door. The dog, who was watching him as if he didn't know this madman who'd replaced his slow, boring owner, didn't do any such thing, but he probably would have if he could talk.

The door slid shut behind him automatically-- good thing, too, or he would have probably forgotten to close it. The lift was only a short way down the hallway that passed for a street on Residential Six, and Zale took it at an awkward run, trying to button the last couple buttons of his shirt as he ran. "Hatching Bay Two-- I mean, Hatching Deck-- I mean-- whatever!" he gasped once he got inside. Amazing how much easier it was to talk to a machine, sometimes; all he needed, really, was prescripted, predictable words. And, sadly enough, that stupid-sounding stammer was what passed for easy.

Apparently that stupid-sounding stammer was intelligible enough for the lift to discern where he was supposed to go, for the doors closed and it started moving. Zale combed back his hair with the fingers of one hand, wincing at the oily texture and the couple of tangles he found, while the other hand held the tiny little electric razor to his cheeks, trying to make himself look less like a bum and more like candidate material. If only he'd had time for a shower.

The lift ride took its usual ungodly short amount of time, and its doors opened all too quickly. Zale stepped out, dropping the now off razor into his pocket and dreading the expression on the face of whatever official there was supposed to be at this hatching at his appearance, and hoping they wouldn't kick him out, thinking that someone who couldn't even take care of himself would never deserve a dragon. And to think. I used to be vain.

No one stopped him, though, or even looked twice at him as he jogged into the hatching bay, out of breath again. I used to be in shape, too. So much for "used to". There were very few in the way of officials, only the Minister of Hatchings and whoever was filling bowls with meat on the table. In fact, there were very few in the way of watchers, too; the audience bleachers were just about empty. Only a few people had trickled in, attracted by the hurriedly assembling candidates and whatever sensitives were picking up from the dragoness and clutch itself. Somehow, too, Zale wasn't even the last one to arrive.

But he had already missed the first egg to hatch. A blue dragonet stood on the mossy ground of the bay, shaking wings free from egg-fluid, looking around at the candidates. Zale hadn't been the first, either, and there were more following him in. People-- humans, anyway-- and a racoon anthromorph, a dragon, and a pair of bears-- Zale edged away from those two a little nervously. Sure, animals usually liked him well enough, but these were bears! In armor, even!

As the first dragon made its choice-- or, had it made for it, as the raccoon anthro caught it-- Zale tried to catch his breath, watching the eggs rather than the slowly-gathering crowd following the last of the candidates inside. There were nine eggs, total, and quite a bit more candidates.

I can't get my hopes up, he told himself firmly, while at the same time hoping fervently that one of the dragons would choose him. Most people don't get chosen at the first hatching they go to, after all, I'd expect. I can keep coming until a dragon likes me enough to bond. And if they keep happening like this, maybe I'll even be able to keep it secret from Ian and Cothran....

So he watched the eggs, and waited. He didn't have to wait long.

The Bonding Story

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