How Radioactive Hell Dragons Become Real.

This here is a fun little project on my path to mastering ai art prompting for storytelling.

By the end of this year, I'm dropping a new story: Vegeta IS HIM. And the plan is to include good quality ai art.

For now, this is a very very rough attempt:-

How Radioactive Hell Dragons Become Real.

-0-

It all started with a pill. Not a very remarkable pill—just one of those little blue ones stamped with the Beta Health logo, the kind meant to steady hands and calm nerves.

But Margaret’s hands kept shaking anyway.

“Useless thing,” she muttered, scowling at her trembling fingers as a pill slipped free and pinged onto the kitchen tiles. Her husband, David, sighed and helped her toward the bedroom. “Rest, love. I’ll handle the rest.”

The pill remained there on the floor, small and stubbornly blue, until David found it while vacuuming. He stared at it. Their daughter was always poking around for hidden treasures—he imagined her swallowing it, then imagined hospital visits, then imagined angry doctors. With a grunt, he scooped it up and tossed it into the garbage bag with coffee grounds, apple cores, and other less dignified trash.

From there, things got… complicated.

The garbage truck swallowed it whole. Inside, the little pill met rotten cabbage, half a pizza, and the inevitable dog turds from someone’s yard. It should have dissolved into nothing, forgotten forever. But instead, it stuck.

It stuck to a wad of old chewing gum.

And the chewing gum stuck to a torn, blood-stained page from a book that smelled like mildew and trouble. Some occult thing, with crooked runes and faded ink that seemed to glare at anyone who dared look too long.

For five days the pill lay pressed into that page like an odd bookmark, absorbing rot and rain and silence.

On the sixth night, the moon rose—bright, round, and nosy. Its silver light poured onto the dump, onto the page, onto the gum, onto the pill. By now, the pill had grown cracks, thin lines spider-webbing across its once-sterile surface. And as the moonlight touched the demonic circle beneath it, the dried blood seemed to pulse, seeping upward in a slow glow.

There was a flash. Red light, brief but sharp enough to make the rats scatter.

When it faded, the pill was no longer blue. It was red.

By the seventh day, it wasn’t really a pill anymore. The gum, the book, the dried blood, even bits of mold and rainwater—it absorbed them all, darkening into a lump of something that looked less like medicine and more like… potential.

The garbage was shipped again, this time onto a barge headed nowhere in particular. The ocean took it, rolling the trash around like a restless belly. And the lump—that strange blackened thing—rolled with it, brushing against plastics, rust, fabrics, oils, paints, and whatever alchemy of human waste was riding along.

Until, at last, it fell into something alive.

A broken egg. One of several discarded in a Beta Genetics carton. Inside, a half-formed chick lay curled, still and unfinished.

The pill—if you could still call it that—dissolved into black radiation, seeping into the cracks of the shell. The egg darkened, hardened, healed. The half-born chick twitched once. Then again.

The barge drifted. A month passed.

One raven, sharp-eyed and hungry, landed to pick at the trash. Its head cocked when it found the egg. A strange egg—pitch black, warm, humming. It tapped the shell. The egg tapped back.

The shell split with a noise like tearing paper.

From within emerged a chick. Not yellow. Not soft. Its feathers were coal-dark, its eyes glowing red like embers in a storm.

It chirped—a high, broken sound. The raven hopped back.

Then the chick opened its beak.

And blue fire spilled out.