Chapter 2, everybody! In which we kick off Obake's hairbrained scheme….

I won't say that 'Dibs' is Globby's real name, because I get the impression that's a nickname too, but it was Globby's non-glob name, so…we'll go with that. *shrugs*

Big Hero 6 © 2014 Disney

How To Train Your Dragon © 2010 DreamWorks

Obake dusted himself off, watching as the dragons flew away with their spoils. At least that was over—a little steamed that he had missed the Night Fury, but….

But he had certainly heard a Night Fury shriek as something went down…a second one?

There was only one way to find out.

He ran back to the forge, packed some supplies in record time, was already heading out the door when some of the other villagers went by, heading for the main hall. Probably being called for a meeting, something confirmed when Carl told him to come on.

"Oh, would love to, really I would," he said, walking backwards to address them as he went in the opposite direction. "But things to do, Night Furies to find and slay, be back with a lovely new coat."

Carl's friend Dibs was really too skinny and stupid to be laughing so hard his knees buckled. Carl shrugged at him, picked up Dibs and headed for the hall.

"Fine—your funeral," he told Obake.

Yes, that would be true—if he came back empty-handed.

And if Callaghan cared enough to even notice he was gone.

Later—for now, he had a dragon to find.


They had regrouped on an island off of the one with the not-dragon settlement, had sent those with spoils back to the nest. Others volunteered to go fishing, so they wouldn't return empty-clawed.

That left exactly six dragons, Older-Brother included, to hunt for Little-Brother.

Older-Brother, meanwhile, was pacing as Honeysuckle waved the last of the dragons off, insides twisting themselves into knots—every minute Little-Brother spent grounded was a minute where something nasty could find him—wolves, bears, not-dragons, Vikings, Yokai—the little hatchling that he had vowed to protect would die a horrible messy death and it would be his fault.

They launched themselves towards the larger island as dawn broke.

"Remember: be careful," Swift-Strike said. "We'll all be downed dragons if the Yokai see us during the day."

Greenscales whimpered, beating his four wings a few times in an attempt to calm himself.

"Healing-Talons, you circle with Honeysuckle," Older-Brother told the Wooly Howl, indicating the Light Fury flying next to him. "When we find Little-Brother, you're going to have to be ready to dive in and help."

"I will be ready," Healing-Talons assured him.

"Good luck," Honeysuckle told him, flying up with Healing-Talons right behind her.

Older-Brother nodded, angling to better circle and scan the woods with the others.

A few circuits later, and he had to confess that Little-Brother was still small enough that his crash probably wouldn't leave enough of an impact to mar the woods, and he resorted to trying to call for him, hoping he wasn't knocked out—rumble in his bones telling him that Mountain-King was aware of their truancy, cries in his ears telling him the Yokai were aware of their presence. The sun was barely overhead when they had to concede defeat.

Honeysuckle put her paw on his shoulder. "We'll come back," she assured him. "We'll come back and find him."

Older-Brother nodded soberly. "Tonight."

And as they flew away, one thought dominated his mind.

Wait for me, little brother.


Well, the good news was, the sound of circling dragons had long since faded.

The bad news was, it was late afternoon, and despite calculating trajectories, he hadn't found anything yet—not even a trace of anything. He was fanning out farther, growing more desperate, wondering if it had fallen into the ocean or something like that….

Or maybe his luck was just that bad. Maybe he was doomed to this fate.

He gusted an aggrieved sigh, resting his head against a tree and forcing his breathing to be calm until he stopped feeling his face flare. Calm, be calm, think—there was indeed a chance that it had fallen into the ocean, but he had been pretty certain it had hit the ground somewhere on the point—all he had to do was find it…it might take some time, but he would find it.

It wasn't like there was anything waiting for him back at the village, to be honest.

He paused at the next clearing that offered a view of the ocean, not for the first time wondering why he didn't just leave. As always, several reasons occurred to him: as a Yokai, he was a pariah—everyone knew that they took no prisoners and brooked no quarter; Callaghan had made sure of that reputation. And the one group that might—might—take him in, that had gone with Granville…well, there was no telling if they were still alive or not, and he only had a vague idea of which direction they had gone, well over twenty years ago. That was a lot of ocean to travel by oneself, even if his end goal was to just find someplace where the Yokai name hadn't reached.

He flirted with the idea of changing outfits, ditching the long dark coat, the vest, the pants, the sweater—finding some other outfit that didn't scream where he was from. But his face would give him away eventually, and trying to keep it from doing so would keep him alienated. Darn it, he wasn't wanting to socialize, but he wanted to at least have the option

He froze in the act of brushing a branch away, realized it was hanging on by only a few strips of bark—

Like something had come barreling through here recently.

He skidded down the slope, following the faint signs of something heavily crashing through, digging in his pack as he went—found his crossbow as he skidded to a halt behind a large boulder.

"Why yes, Chief Callaghan, that is a Night Fury," he muttered to himself, unable to keep a grin off his face as he readied his crossbow. "Yes indeed, I think I'll turn it into a nice coat, maybe use the leftover as a rug. Now about that promotion—" Promotion! If he came back to the village dragging a Night Fury corpse, he was almost certain he would be running the place before the end of the day!

Froze at the sound of some plaintive warbling—this was it—it was definitely just beyond this little rise—a nice feather in his cap—the best feather in his cap—just a few feet away.

This is it, he thought, forcing his breathing to be calm and even. This is the moment of truth, the moment when you get everything you deserve—the moment when staying behind didn't turn out to be a waste after all.

Scowl at that thought, swing the crossbow to low ready, slip out from behind the boulder and dart up the rise, aiming, scanning for something scaly—

Nothing.

He lowered the crossbow slightly, eyes raking the area, trying to keep the confusion down—he had heard it—was it an echo? It could be, the way these hills were—

Or it was already gone.

But he had tested that stupid thing! Skid down the slope, cursing—had tested it and tested it—it grounded Gronkles and Nadders and Zipplebacks well enough (Nightmares, not so much, only because of their nasty habit of setting themselves on fire). Reach the bottom, ears straining—

Whimpering. Coming from behind those bushes.

There we go.

Steal up to the bushes, crossbow ready, carefully treading around, aiming—

His heart fairly stopped at the sight of black scales moving.

Of course Night Furies would be black as pitch—his mind couldn't help but pick at the inane thought as he circled around for a better shot—black on black, a faint pattern evident in the scales—would break up the silhouette, the color, make camouflage easier for it—body streamlined, perfect for fast flight….

Really thought it would be bigger though.

It was trying to wriggle away, was making some time, eyes rolling as its head flailed—green eyes, pupils catlike slits, mouth full of teeth—

And then it spotted him.

He could see the emotion—the horror stealing over its scales, shrinking in fear—bah! But this was good—if the most feared of all dragons felt that way about him—

It curled up as best it could, trembling, eyes clenched shut, braced for the end. It was expecting death, knew it was going to die today….

Was really too small to be a full-grown Night Fury.

Crossbow wavered…finally lowered it, considering. What, precisely, was a young Night Fury doing out here?

…And could he do something with it?

Rub his face, considering…even a small dragon could be lethal—just look at the Terrible Terrors. But…still, a young dragon….Glance it over—the outer wing bone was broken, skin swollen and obviously bending wrong there—it couldn't exactly fly away right now….

Maybe there was an option. Maybe he could test a theory—a hair-brained theory, but a theory.

Maybe a full-grown Night Fury could carry a person.

He made his decision, figured he'd never get another opportunity to test it—put the crossbow down and pull out a knife, mince over, start cutting some of the ropes free—general idea of how to bind that wing—

Was prepared for it to lunge at him, teeth bared, eyes crazed—caught it and clamped its mouth shut—splayed hands matching the length and breadth of the spade-shaped head.

"Calm down you idiot creature!" he hissed. "I'm trying to help!"

Still squirming, but it focused on him, eyes searching his face—nerves were making his face flare again, but he couldn't do anything about that right now—

Slowly stopped squirming, still trembling—he figured he'd take what he could get, let go…leave the rest of it bound for now while he tried to figure out the wing.

Approaching it like a regular broken bone only went so far, since it started flailing again when he tried to set it and splint it—did finally manage something that looked right and kept the bone in place, carefully eased it into place and tied it down, cannibalizing his pack and the rest of the trap to do so. The shadows were long and threatening nightfall by the time he finished, sitting back and rubbing his exhausted eyes. Sleep—sleep was probably a good idea sometime soon.

Which was about the time it occurred to the dragon that his guard was down and now would be a good time to bolt—which it did.

"Idiot," he muttered to himself—should have tied it to something, a tree, himself, anything—could hear it screaming through the woods, same sort of noise over and over again—

There had been two Night Furies—this one, and the one that had attacked him after he shot it down.

He scanned the darkening skies, muscles tightening, free hand questing for his crossbow—knowing the sort of shape he was looking for did him no good—neither did panicking, he thought, feeling his face flare again—

He didn't see anything, but that didn't mean much—just—find it and shut it up.

Make his way through the darkening woods after it, heart pounding—honestly the most terror he had felt in a long time—he was out of his element out here, up against an opponent he wouldn't see coming, all for a scheme that hadn't even seen an oven, let alone be half-baked. This was lunacy at its finest, he was sure.

Dark scales blended in with the shadows, but he could spot the canvas bandaging easily enough—it was currently in the bottom of a little vale, hiccupping in between cries, good wing flapping weakly—about as pitiful as you could get. He approached cautiously—

It must have sensed him—spun around, spotted him, started backing away, spine arched, mouth open, hissing—him ready to dive away in case that hissing became the telltale whistling that signaled its breath attack—

Try something different—put down the knife and crossbow, hands up, down on one knee, trying for unassuming.

"You're not going to go anywhere like that," he said, trying to keep his voice calm—cool, calm, collected, cool, calm, collected—"And you can't keep rattling around like this—something will eat you." Hardly—the island had been overhunted, to the point where he'd be surprised if squirrels were still around. "Just…stop that."

It probably wasn't motivated to listen to him at all—he couldn't do nice or comforting if you paid him—but it did stop hissing, ear flaps tipping about, seeming to shrink in on itself…minced back a step when he eased forward.

He stopped, considering…sat back, watching its movements, trying to figure out a way to get closer. It watched him, green eyes wide….

Gingerly stepped closer.

It was an inch, maybe, but it was an inch he was willing to take—very gently ease his way down the slope, where it didn't bolt or back off…get close enough that he could reach out and touch it, if he so desired.

That didn't seem like a good idea, though.

Gingerly reach out, enough to let it sniff his hand, but able to yank back if it looked like it was going to take a bite out of it instead—it sniffed at him, snorted, went back to searching his face again—

"I wouldn't have gone to all that trouble just to kill you," he told it. That would change if it attacked, but for now….

It sniffed his hand again….

Surprised him by pressing its head into his palm.

He blinked, barely processing this—

And then it dove for his chest.

He fell back, yelping—this was it, this was when his stupid idea killed him—

Except it wasn't attacking—claws were digging in, yes, but it looked and felt like it was doing its best to curl up against him, still shaking and whining piteously. He gingerly patted it, not sure how to proceed—honestly, he was surprised he made it this far.

What he did know was that for this scheme to succeed, he needed to be able to keep this dragon someplace where it couldn't run off.

…he knew just the place.