"You know," said Mortimer, speaking into his mind. "You need a name. After all, everyone should have one, and I can't keep calling you Dragon. Would you agree?" The dragon nodded its head in confirmation.
"I would. May I choose my own, or will you do it?"
"Oh, you can do it, I think. I hardly think I'm qualified to think of a name for a Dragon. I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll make a game of it. If you haven't thought of one by the time we arrive at King's Cross Station on Earth in two weeks time, then I'll think of one for you. Now, how does that sound?"
"That actually sounds mildly amusing."
"Excellent. I'd best begin thinking immediately, just in case. Are you a boy or a girl?" At this, the dragon looked at him, and answered in that strange and beautiful voice.
"I'm a girl. Do you mean to tell me that we've known each other for a week or two now, and you still haven't figured that out?" Mortimer put up his hands, as though to defend himself.
"Well, I don't know much about Dragons, do I? At least, not your kind."
"My kind? You mean I'm not the only sort of Dragon?"
"Oh yes. There are scores of them, found on many of the different worlds. I mean, even the Heartless have their own breeds of Dragon. Or there are Heartless that look like Dragons. I'm a little unclear on that. In any case, I can identify the species of a Heartless Dragon on sight, and list its weaknesses in under a minute. My father's education has seen that I am not unprepared for my enemies. Speaking of which, we should probably get going. Uncle Vexen wanted to speak to us."
"Then let us away." And with that, they walked to the library door. Mortimer held it open for the Dragon to pass before him, and then followed her as they made their way towards the laboratory.
"Why do you spend so much time in there? The room with all the white-and-black things."
"Do you mean the Library?" The Dragon dipped her head.
"I think so, yes."
"It happens to double up as my bedroom. When I first came here, I slept in my father's room. Then I was given my own room, on the same floor as the others. But I spent so much time in the library that they eventually just moved me in there for the sake of convenience. It was either that or keep on replacing the door every time I woke in the night, needed to read and cut my way in. Incidentally, those white-and-black things, as you call them, are called books."
"Books... Books..." She repeated the word as though tasting it, savouring the sound and shape of it with whatever the mental equivalent of a tongue might be. "An interesting word. What did you say you did with them?"
"I read them. Quite often, actually. Some would say too much."
"Why do you read?"
"Good question. It might be because of my biological mother and what she was and by extension what I am. It might be because my father Zexion enjoys it, and he taught me to love it too. It could be any one of a thousand reasons or more, but I can honestly say I don't know what that reason is. What I do know is that there is a joy I find in reading that I find nowhere else. To lose myself in one of a million different oceans of ink and paper, each word an island paradise of black sands in an otherwise barren and featureless world... A new adventure with every chapter, a fresh start with every page, a new wonder with every line... And once the adventure is over, I can close the book and return to my own World of night and beauty, safe in the knowledge that I can go back any time I want, simply by rereading the book. It is perfection to me. Nothing can compare to it."
"Can... Can I read books as well?" This seemed more hesitant, as one who broaches a subject deemed forbidden.
"You want to read? Don't be ridiculous. You don't know how, for one thing." At this, the Dragon slowed her walk a little, giving off the same sort of impression one might get while observing a little girl who had been told she was unable to have sweets. "I suppose that means I'll have to try and teach you. If you want to learn, that is. Ah, here we are." Mortimer pushed the door open and held it for the Dragon.
The laboratory was impressive. Machinery and apparatus lined the walls, while half-finished inventions lay on the tables and experiments bubbled away merrily in the corner. Given a year to look around and study what lay within, most would still find themselves incapable of understanding it all, much less do it themselves. It is perhaps ironic then that their creator was incapable of such a thing himself in six out of ten cases, as he was not quite himself when he did so. "Uncle Vexen!" Mortimer called as he made his way through the veritable labyrinth of scientific and occasionally esoteric paraphernalia. "Are you in here?"
"Over here, boy," said a voice from somewhere within a heap of cables and empty bottles. "And in Ansem's name, do not shout. My head hurts badly enough as it is." For Vexen was a veritable master of that oldest and most noble of substance-assisted scientific fields: Drunk Science.
It had begun simply as a means to cope with the fact that he had become something that should not exist, and indeed did not exist according to the laws and principles he as a scientist had built his life around. The fact that despite those same laws and principles he was quite obviously still there had been upsetting for him at the time to say the very least. Then he had discovered alcohol. Even had always abhorred the idea of consuming alcohol, reasoning that anything that so upset the balance of a man's mind was surely not meant to be drunk, and should in fact be reviled. Vexen, on the other hand, had reasoned that since he was no longer meant to be, he had no reason to care if he should or he shouldn't. In true mad scientific style, he had cast aside morality in his quest for the truth. The fact that he could enjoy it cold whenever he wished didn't hurt either. No sooner had that first drop of whiskey passed his lips, he had blacked out. When he awoke the next day, he discovered that he had a pounding head and that he had somehow built a device capable of producing miniature figurines of whomever it was aimed at. And so, his drunken crusade against ignorance began. These days, he no longer blacked out straight away, able to remain awake up until the point the booze began to wear off. Despite this apparent lucidity, he was still incapable of recreating many of the fruits his intoxicated labour had brought forth, although he was the only non-being in the history of history to reverse-engineer his own creations out of lack of understanding. He didn't get drunk all the time, choosing to restrict himself mainly to the weekends. He had dug himself out of such piles as the one he currently lay in on many a Monday morning in the years past. Today, however, there was no need, for an arm had just appeared in search of him.
Mortimer felt a hand grasp his own, and pulled. A reasonable amount of long, blonde hair appeared, followed by a thin, slightly effeminate face and a black-clad body. The Chilly Academic soon stood before him, dusting himself down, a look of mild pain crossing his features with every clink of bottle on bottle. Mortimer grinned. "You wanted to see me, Uncle?"
"Yes. Both of you, actually. If you could just direct it to that space over there, I can take some measurements." He gestured absent-mindedly at a clear area on the floor.
"It's a she, actually. Just found out."
"Ah. Then direct her over there."
"Very good, Uncle." Mortimer turned to the Dragon. "Would you mind awfully?"
"Not at all," said the Dragon, walking over to the aforementioned clearing. Vexen came over with a tape measure and a clipboard and began to take measurements. Every so often, he would turn to Mortimer and ask him to ask her to move in some way, sticking out her tail as far as she could, extending her wings, stretching her neck and so on. They continued in this way for a good ten minutes or so, occasionally exchanging polite conversation. Mortimer enjoyed spending time with his Uncle, but understood that he wasn't the sort who had time for such frivolities as social interaction. It wasn't long before they were finished. "Well, that all seems to be in order. Her growth appears to be progressing smoothly. She should be just large enough to ride by the time you arrive on Earth."
After checking his notes a few times for accuracy and consistency, Vexen made his way over to a large machine on the wall, beckoning the pair to follow him. "This is my latest creation. It analyses any genetic sample fed into it, identifies every single gene contained therein and displays their function in the form of a picture of the donor in a variety of appropriate and occasionally whimsical outfits or activities."
Here, he noticed their respective looks of mild astonishment and confusion. "Look, I was extremely drunk. Extremely. You think my inebriated brain cares for taste? Anyway, I fed the sample of blood I took at your last check-up into it, and I thought you'd want to know the results."
So saying, he reached over and twisted a knob below the screen, which then flickered into life. A picture of Mortimer, dressed much as he was in a fine white shirt, black waistcoat and trousers with matching boots, appeared on the screen. "This is an overview of the donor," said Vexen, tapping away at a keyboard. "But, if I enter the right commands..." The display changed to show Mortimer on one side, some text on the other and a slider bar along the bottom. Vexen typed in another word or two, evidently activating some sort of search feature, for the picture began to change rapidly, cycling through one gene to the next in quick succession.
"We know that you are a wizard as a result of your genes. This is the gene for Magic." Mortimer appeared, dressed in black robes and a pointed hat with a wide brim. "This is the Paper gene." Mortimer changed into a brown waistcoat with a red tie. "And this is the reason I called you here."
He tapped another key, and the image resized itself, zooming in on the top of Mortimer's head. There, clearly visible, were two small but distinct horns. Vexen cycled back to the Magic gene. There, too, were the horns, sticking out through the brim of his hat. "I've been through your genetic code. Those horns appear in only one other picture, which is the gene for the colour of your eyes. Given the way the images work, I can only assume that all three are connected in some way. There is only one thing of which I am currently certain."
Mortimer looked at him with confusion on his face, thoughts running through his head. At the very edge of his mind, he felt something like a breeze.
"Mortimer, I don't think you're entirely human."