Conversions
-Disclaimer: Hasbro owns all recognizable characters, most unrecognizable characters, and no, I'm not profiting off of this.
----

Gray and black, stone and steel and glass molded into labyrinthine walls impaired it.

Broken metal scraped across cracked sidewalk.

Close. So close.

Salt. Water. The smell of burning stone.

Shutters closed and drapes dropped upon its onset.

Tattered red was left in its wake.

Wet, rasping gasps burbled from its depths.

Almost ready.

Magic sang.

----

One little dragon glumly stared at the sign in front of him.

Closed.

Pony food, fibres, grains and flowers just weren't working to silence the rumbling from his belly. He didn't have the bits to buy enough precious stones to comfortably do the job.

Well, that and his other expenses. He was getting himself an abacus and that wasn't up for debate.

So he'd priced some quartz at a do-it yourself department store near the edge of town. Two days ago he'd hunted it down after work, finding it after it was already closed. Yesterday he got in with just enough time to actually look at things for a few minutes before getting shoo'd out the door.

Today he brought the bits to cover a couple cubic hooves worth of the common crystals. Though apparently the time it took for him to go upstairs, dig his money pouch out from underneath the pile of partially completed textbooks and rush here was too long.

Spike kicked a pebble on the sidewalk, frustrated at his luck or lack thereof. It bounced once, twice and came to rest against a pair of stout red claws.

Spike looked up, and up, and up into unpleasantly familiar eyes.

And a fang filled grin.

"Ow." Spike's legs trembled as he took a step back. He knew this dragon.

Garble. A base bully of the worst sort.

His was the face that Spike saw when he heard about the evils of dragons long past. He was the villian of nightmare and dream alike. A foul, petty monster uncaring of the basic sanctity of life yet lived.

"A little baby dragon like you should be careful." A pair of legs stepped out from behind the adolescents silhouette. One white and one gray, revealing themselves attached to another pair of dragons. Garble stepped forward and gripped Spike's cheeks, tilting his head up and forcing him to meet his eyes. "Dragons like me and my friends here, we might take offense to that."

"I'm shorry." Spike mumbled as best he could while unable to move his jaw. From the corner of his eye he could see the last few ponies out in the evening hustling off, eager to leave before a fight broke out.

"Aww, he's sorry. Did you hear that, Turq? He says he's sorry." The red dragon shoved, sending Spike tumbling to the ground. "You ain't sorry yet."

Spike barely rolled out of the way in time to avoid a massive crimson claw that gouged fresh grooves into the cement where he'd been.

"My flight got cut in half thanks to you, squirt. Ain't no dragon wants to follow me after I let you and those pony losers go!" He scrambled to his feet without a second to spare. Dragon's breath licking at his tail. His legs were barely pumping when he ran straight into the shins of one Garble's lackeys. Thin and boney. The gray one.

He didn't get an opportunity to get back up before red claws were wrapped around his neck. He was lifted almost straight up, his claws, small and needle-like compared to the daggers gripping him failed to find purchase.

"Don't worry, Speck. This is going to feel so good." Sharp teeth and foul breath should have held the whole of the purple dragons focus. "For me."

Instead of the glowing green thing hobbling right behind his would be attacker.

----

The first thing the 'Teenage' dragons noticed wasn't the noise of things scraping behind them.

It was the smell.

In pony culture, meat was not served. Period. End of discussion.

Even the dragons of Dragon Town observed this particular societal understanding.

For the most part.

The omnivores had no distinct need for biological fare, should they have access to a steady supply of gemstones. The magical incinerator that was their flame readily converting stone and crystal into raw, unfettered energy.

That said, youthful rebellion would see the bucking of many trends before whatever upstart got some sense knocked into them by an older, wiser dragon.

So Garble was familiar with the taboo of living food. His lackeys, too, had indulged. One furtive instance of stale, rotted flesh that was embedded into their memory.

The overpowering aura of spilt blood brought their jeering laughter to a halt. The sound of tearing muscle pulling loose drew their ears. Something ancient, something primal deep within everything present, the inherited memories of the dragons who came before them hidden in the depths of their genes told them to run.

Not turn around like the band of fools they were.

It was close to them now, close enough for the details to be seen in the light of the waxing moon.

It was almost a pony in much the same way a peanut is almost a potato.

That is, they may have both had superficial differences, and nothing else in common.

It had four legs, one of which was dragging a raw smear into the ground. Lame and twisted.

It had two eye sockets in its exposed skull. A green light, an acidic hue glowing from somewhere deep within. There were no teeth in its empty grin, just small chunks of some kind that would rise and burst and bleed into the metal fused into its jaw.

It stepped forward, the pitted metal rust red and red with rust groaned ominously where skin had tried to grow over it. And tore. Filth stained the cement, an indelible mark.

Something green and glowing surfaced visibly in its throat and Garble panicked.

He threw the baby dragon in his hand at the thing and ran. Completely ignoring his wings. Forgetting his fire.

All that mattered was getting away.

Near the end of the road he heard the screaming stop, only to realize it had been his own voice. He chanced a moment to turn around.

And immediately regretted it.

Some things. Tendrils. Tentacles. Feelers. Things were coming out of the monsters neck and holding on to the baby dragon. Pulling his own victim down its throat, mindless of the flames and claws struggling to escape.

Garble turned away.

He refused to regret living.

Author's Notes:

You'd almost think I was writing a zombie story here.

Why yes, I have played Bloodborne. Why do you ask?