The young 25 year old Sylvester Nhamante's family wanted him to go into something a bit more tame than putting himself between onlookers and bombs. But that's what he winds up doing. This 3-year vetran of the force is a deceptively intelligent and massively built example of 108's decision to support under-priveleged children's educations. His entrance to the force was delayed by a 4 year stint in the Marines, but his application was given the moment he turned 17.

The large build and slightly menacing African-American seems faintly out of place, but not according to anyone who's spoken with him for even a minute. His almost-black skin shines with health, he keeps his hair in tight long braids tied back (he and Clay often exchange quips about losing hair scrunchies)(what a pair of women!) and his eyes are uncannily light brown for his skin tone. With a booming voice he is often chosen to do crowd control until the official police force arrives at a scene.

His father left home when he was 2 months old, one brother was shot to death in front of their house when he was 6, and his sister was found dead of an overdose when he was 10. Through all that, his mother made sure that Sylvester was given the right education. She fiercely insisted he remain out of gangs, and suggested that he enter the Marines in order to get the 'family' upbringing that she felt she didn't give. He loves her dearly and on his tour in the Marines he sent every penny he earned back to her - getting her out of the ghetto and into a better neighborhood. He isn't sure he wants to bring up a family in the day's stressful world. But he would certainly be a father that any child could look up to.

The Weyr was quick to settle, when everyone had arrived. The queen on the sands was rather... uppity. Nervous perhaps - but Sylvester didn't know why. It was probably that she thought her eggs would just never hatch or something. That seemed to worry a couple other candidates, a pair of mop-topped kids from a place called Dawnlight, that to Nhamante sounded faintly familiar.

The hatching was announced abruptly at breakfast - but Sylvester was used to scarfing and running - that was the way of living and working in a fire station after all!

Several hatchlings had already crawled from their shells, which faintly disappointed people as they arrived. Sylvester wasn't sure why - but then as the first two, a pair of greens, found their bonds, another egg broke up. It seemed that everyone else was watching the happy pairs leave the sands, but to Sylvester that one egg was for some reason far more important.

It shook first, then bulged, then shattered. The hatchling inside it was gigantic compared to the others, though from the little training that he'd gotten, Nhamante realized that the whirling of the dam's eyes showed disappointment. Why? What in the world could be disappointing about this beautiful brown?

He made a line, wobbly at first, toward the male candidates, but was interrupted by the blue who'd hatched first with the greens. The impulsive blue paired off with one of the moptops, the girl - odd. And then, the brown continued his trek toward Sylvester.

Do you mind that I waited, Sylvester? It was only polite, he said. The voice of this small dragon inside his head tingled everywhere, Nhamante's mind had only been touched a couple times since learning about dragons at all. The voice was deeper than he expected from a hatchling - it was ... well, perhaps the voice that would never change. The tittering and crooning from the dragons above told him that there were voices that would change, but the mind? That one was securely his and he would never part from it.

Proudly then Sylvester shook his head and indicated with a first attempt to contact through his own mind, that there was nothing wrong with letting the other dragon go first. They would not have to always do that. The dragon walked beside him, on the sands toward the meat bowls, and Sylvester knew that they would be a great team.

He would be big, everyone said that. Perhaps expected to be a bronze, in the shell that was so large - was that it? That was why the dam was a bit put off? Sylvester laughed to himself, "not one dragon on these sands is better than you, Yeridunth."

***

It was just a few days after the hatching, when the little dragonets were getting antsy to walk and stretch, that the dragonpairs were summoned to their training. And it was very odd, because Sylvester didn't see his name on any chart - his dragon's companion was listed as "S'nte".

He asked someone, "how do you pronounce this?" And he showed it to them. One person said something like, "sunntay," while another blurted out SNOT! And that seemed to be the general impression. His new name was Snot?

"Sir!" Sylvester said as they gathered in a line, each dragon standing as best at attention as they could, "I ... don't know about this name change thing."

"It's going to be that way since we are a fighting weyr, you know," The weyrling master announced with a grim look.

"But - sir," Nhamante protested. "I know that everyone else is getting names like S'var and J'to and all. But... My name looks like it says "snot". And that's not really... it isn't a, well," he hemmed and hawed. "Can't we call me something else?"

"What would you have me call you, then?" It was almost a challenge by the man. Sylvester wanted to point out that while he would be going back to effectively a combat situation himself, they didn't shorten their names like this.

He paused for thought, and before the weyrling master could announce that things would be as they were written up, the new brown rider puffed up and said, "Man'te, sir, call me Man'te. It's much closer to my heritage and family name."

Since he'd been in the Marines, the glare that the weyrling master gave him rolled off him like nothing. Eventually, the "snot" moniker was lost to Man'te - which was a far better handle, indeed, according to Yeridunth.

"That brown's got wings bigger than the bronzes, and he still isn't flying?" Demanded the weyrling master, "I don't see it... Come on, up with you!"

Man'te looked at Yeridunth, "he's taking longer because he's bigger, and needs a bit more time. The other bronzes I've read about take a little longer too."

He was starting to see the bits of dragon-riding prejudices coming out here and there. As a brown rider he was expected to be the middle of the road, the work horse, the stock in trade for filling ranks. But Sylvester Nhamante and his bronze-sized brown were anything but middle of the road. First of course, Man'te was bigger than most candidates, and older by a couple years. He was already well versed in military and fire fighting tactics, and was already trained at rescues and such for his job at Talon City. And Yeridunth was huge, not just in general, he was built like a bronze but he had that non-metallic skin that people just assumed meant he was average.

Grumbling, Man'te told Yeridunth, "let's get up in the air, then. I don't think we'll fall."

You do not think so? My wings sometimes hurt when I stretch them, Man'te...

"I know they do, but we've got no choice. Let's do it. Maybe you'll see a different side of it then." He patted the big brown's side, and climbed onto the riding saddle. It was comfortable for the rider, less so for the dragon. He didn't like the harness, but he'd definitely have to get used to it, because Sylvester was not going to be flying about over fire scenes and emergencies without a harness!

What kind of scandal would that make? Flying without proper safety equipment!? With a smile on his face, Man'te spurred Yeridunth into the air.

Flapping hard, with mighty strokes, the brown began to run toward the flight ledges. Out of the weyr, suddenly free of the ground... Man'te hooted loudly, as most first-time fliers did, and then held on for dear life as his dragon got the hang of actually flapping both wings properly at the same time...

Do you think they will be proud of me?

"Yeridunth, my momma is going to love you to pieces." Man'te said, so used to his short name that he was thinking about keeping it at the station - if they could all remember each other's names to begin with. When they'd made the switch to the Healing Den's nexus stalls, they could feel that strange static humming in their bodies - the nexus wasn't a place, wasn't in time, and could be reached only if they knew how.

It was a good thing they were exceptionally good about location and mapping. Man'te guided the big brown - who had grown indeed huge - through the wide portal into Talon's space.

I am not going to fit in there, the dragon stated, and it was plain that he was going to scrape his wings and probably his head horns if he stood up straight.

"Well it's just the transport area, we could work out another place for us to exit," the rescue specialist said. "I think that the Alabaster people are working on something. Did you see the Cap's dragon yet?"

I have, and I am impressed. But they will be impressed with us too. I want to meet them now!

When they cleared the exit, it was to a saluting group of people Sylvester barely knew. They were the replacement crew that was on for the duration of weeks assigned to the crew's absence. The Healing Den's portals were designed to keep them on track for their time table, no matter who bonded when. That was convienent. It was something Sylvester didn't want to dwell on, because he wasn't going to understand the hows and whys of it even if he tried.

They saluted back - Man'te with a sharp Marines snap to his forehead, and Yeridunth with a straight neck and bugle. His call was echoed by the other dragons, including a few that circled in the sky - police dragons.

"Now we're going to see my momma, don't let anyone blow anything up while we're gone!" He said, and indeed - momma was impressed.