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THE INSTITUTE OF ADVANCED BIOKINETICS AND NEUROANATOMY

Old habits die hard.

How else to wrap my brain around why I am standing right here where I’m standing at this moment? And if old habits die hard, then it seems like bad habits are freaking immortal.

Because I jet from the Lava Lounge and fly out behind Central Campus and then fly a couple miles through the jungle path. Out of habit. Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself right now, anyway. Because this is the only way I can explain to myself why I am standing here in front of my grandpa Dr. Terrible’s Institute of Advanced Biokinetics and Neuroanatomy.

Because the only other possible explanation is that I’m just a straight-up chump.

But you promised yourself you’d never come here again.

Don’t you remember? After Dr. Terrible stole Idrixia away from you. When you spent that week heartbroken under the covers in your lair?

You told yourself you were through with this place forever.

Now I glance down at my powerstaff to check my BIOCON LEVS and almost faint.

Because my WTP monitor bar is flashing EMERGENCY MODE. While dealing with that headless Thing back in the Dining Hall, well I must’ve burnt right through what little WILL TO POWER I had left in the tank.

So I reverted to autopilot.

Who can blame me, really? I mean for the past four years I’ve been coming out here every Friday for my weekly sessions with Dr. Terrible. And now here it is Friday and I’m squatting on my haunches outside the entrance to the Institute.

The Institute is my safe retreat. Or at least it had been before Dr. Terrible whisked Idrixia away from me.

How long ago was that exactly?

Close to two months now. My grandpa and I haven’t spoken since. Of course, he gave me the spaceship ATHENOS II and he’s written me a couple letters recently.

Now a light breeze comes up and my nostrils flare and I catch a whiff of something ominous which makes the scales on the back of my long green neck stand up. I drop down low on my trembling haunches in the tall grass on the edge of the Institute’s grounds and whip my binocs off my utility belt and peer out.

I spot a WarWings security detail of dragon Commandos squatting there in front of the empty space where Dr. Terrible’s laboratory used to be. There are six or seven of these demented-looking scaly green fools. Each of the Commandos is heavily armed with photon blasters and decked out in full Conquer Gear. These dragons are some of Rexro’s clowns, for sure.

If these dragons get their talons on my scaly green ass then I can kiss my chances of going to EggHarvest good-bye. So I flap my wings and fly toward the back of the Institute and far out of sight of the security goons.

I fly along the perimeter of the Institute grounds, which are surrounded by jungle.

I fly all the way up to the entrance of the Center for Combat & Conquer, which is a black structure of stones and bones. My grandpa used to bring me here during our weekly sessions, so we could work on my moves. A couple hours in here always seemed to amp my BIOCON LEVS. Especially my FIRESTREAM BLAST RADIUS, WING STRENGTH & FLIGHT CAPABILITY, STRATEGIC DESTRUCTION COMBAT READINESS, TRAUMA INDUCTION CAPABILITY, TONGUE SHOOTING ACCURACY, and of course my HORN DENSITY & MASS scores.

Because assuming you don’t die during the course of your training here at the Center for Combat & Conquer, you always fly out of here feeling refreshed. Reinvigorated and yes, a damn sight more ruthless and deranged.

And as I squat here in front of the Center for Combat & Conquer, a scary thought occurs:

Maybe I’m here because I miss my grandpa? Oh God.

Maybe I’m feeling wrung out and hung out to dry and there’s a masochistic part of me which craves to be in the company of the treacherous Dr. Terrible? To hear him lecture me in his demented and violently intelligent ways, and to give me counsel?

Because I’ll be the first to admit that what started out as a Crown Day morning filled with so much promise and potential glory has quickly flat-lined into a hideous nightmare seemingly without end. The fact of the matter is I desperately need help.

My powerstaff vibrates and I hold it up and see it’s a message from Fribby:

Remember what I said about Dr. Terrible.

Keep your distance from him, OK?

I got a real bad feeling.

He’s up to something. I just know it.

I swipe the screen with my claw. There’s no way I’m responding to that message. Things are too humiliating and bleak right now. Besides, I know if I tell Fribby where I am she’ll freak and fly out here pronto. And I just can’t deal with that right now. Things are bad enough as it is.

I nervously tap my powerstaff to see if anything has changed. And it has, just not in the way I was hoping. Instead of rebounding to my normal Snacklicious, my WILL TO POWER has actually dropped. KickMySnout. My WTP score is KickMySnout. The little firestream icon in the staff’s monitor is flashing faster now, as if to make sure I understand that my plummeting BIOCON LEVS situation is significantly more desperate than it was even a minute ago. I feel queasy.

Can you tell me why it is that those of us who need help the most are always the last ones to realize it? And then why do we go about seeking help where there is obviously none to be had? Now if you try to explain it away by saying that I’m just plain stupid, well that would be way too generous. Because my problems have to do with much more dire deficiencies than good old-fashioned ignorance.

I sigh and feel my jumbo heart swell and suddenly take on so much more additional weight that it causes me to stumble and momentarily lose my center of gravity.

You broke your promise to yourself.

You swore you’d never come back to this place.

Turns out habits have nothing to do with it.

I’m just a chump after all.

And so, without further ado, I push through the door.