"I got that, damn the thing. Just not what that has to do with scars. Did you lose them in battle? That's terrible."
"No. I cut them off."
My jaw drops. "Say that again?"
"I. Cut. Them—"
"No. Don't say it again."
"You just—"
"It's just a figure of speech."
"As in writing?"
I blink, not getting it at first, then see how the translator fucked up again.
"No. Bad translation. What I meant was: why did you cut them off?"
"Then just ask that, Kira. Say the words you mean."
"I do say the fornicating words I mean," I hiss.
I let out a growl and refuse to admit that I just underscored his fucking point.
Dammit.
"To answer you, now that you have decided to make sense, the Maj'Ras cut them off because they are useless as soon as we grow too heavy as adults. They get in the way. Most civilians keep them as drapings and a show of prestige."
So, there are rich dudes getting to waltz around with the equivalent of fancy suits made out of their useless wings because drak like him fight.
Sounds familiar.
"Wait. You could fly as a hatchling? Uh, kid?"
He lets out a grumble, but answers. "Yes."
I absorb that new info as I try to wrangle the giant surge of jealousy crowding my chest and throat into something more manageable.
Draks have all the damn fun.
"You don't miss it?"
"No. Jet packs are more responsive and don't come with an energy drain."
I absorb that new information, confused.
"Let me see if I have this right. You're advanced enough to make fornicating jet packs, but a surgeon can't amputate your outgrown wings without making it look like an animal gnawed them off."
"As usual, you aren't listening to my clearly communicated words. I. Cut. Them. Off. But you are somewhat right, it did partially involve claws."
Holy shit, Batman.
"I have no words."
"Is that all it takes? If only I had known before. Go to sleep, Kira."
"But why would you—"
