Mike stared at the plate of bloody meat. This is why he hadn’t wanted to be a carnivore.

On Earth he hadn’t been a vegetarian. His sister was. She’d once spent a month trying to convert him and had only succeeded in giving him a fear of touching raw meat. He would happily order steak or chicken at any restaurant, but at home the only meat he touched was aged salami.

The slab of reddish brow flesh before him made him queasy.

Suddenly Mike realized this must be a test. Yes, that was it! No one actually expected him to eat this!

Mike looked at the professor, who was happily cutting into his own raw steak. “I’m not eating this,” he stated.

“Oh? Why not?” the professor asked.

“It’s not cooked,” Mike said.

Bartholomew snorted, swallowing a bite of his salad.

“It has salt and pepper on it,” the professor said. “The meat has been properly prepared.”

“I’m not going to eat raw meat,” Mike said flatly.

“Very well,” the professor said uncertainly. He turned and called for the woman who had brought their food. “Margaret! Please come and take our friend’s food. He wishes it to be… cooked.”

A larger quadruped shuffled into the room. “Cooked, sir?” she asked, looking at Mike.

“Yes,” he answered with wavering confidence.

She hesitated. “What exactly do you mean by ‘cooked’?”

“Put over heat until it’s… not raw?”

“Heat?” she echoed.

Mike was, at this point, pretty sure it wasn’t a test. This was really what they ate. Still, he had to try. “Fire?”

The poor quadruped looked baffled. “I’m sorry, sir, where will I get fire in Summer? Fireplaces aren’t lit until fall.”

“Never mind,” he said, looking back at the plate.

“Yes, sir,” she said, shuffling back out.

Mike picked up his fork and knife, ready to cut into his lunch.

He could do it.

It would be easy.

And he was certain his inhuman biology had some kind of natural defense against any bacteria the meat carried.

Salmonella probably didn’t even exist in this world.

Mike cut into the slab of dead animal, lifted a piece to his mouth, and…

“Yeah, no, is there a fire around here somewhere?”

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Miss Eleanor Coleberry, heiress to her father’s furniture business, daydreamed about murdering everyone in the room.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

She would start by snapping off the head of the insufferable little troodon, Miss Penelope Curbston. Miss Curbston was already drunk, and removing her head was the only thing that would stop her from talking.

Next, Eleanor would drag her lovely brown claws down Lord Harold Martingas’ neck. The shunosaurus would be highly offended by this, and would probably try lecturing Eleanor about the impropriety of her actions as he bled out.

Next Eleanor would dispose of the servants. Unless they accepted bribes to leave the country. She’d offer, but might have to cut their lungs out anyway.

General Paul Jaywalker would be the only death she’d regret. He was an idiot, but a kind idiot. Eleanor would have to be precise when she dug her teeth into the base of his skull and snapped his neck. She wouldn’t want to cause him more pain than necessary.

And then, like dessert at the end of a long day, Eleanor would pin Marquis Sylvester Sherrington to the wall, make a medium-sized incision into his abdomen, and slowly pull out all his intestines. She’d use them to tie his jaw shut, reducing the screaming as his blood soaked through his feathers and-

“Don’t you think, Miss Coleberry?”

Eleanor snapped out of her fantasy and gave Miss Curbston a polite smile. “I’m sorry, I was thinking of business, what was that?”

Miss Curbston batted her with a fan. “Just like you, always thinking about money,” she tittered.

“I approve of that,” Lord Martingas stated. “However, it is polite to pay attention to the conversation around you.”

“Yes, I apologize,” Eleanor said.

“I was talking about my new clone,” the Marquis said. “I ordered a luck clone, and it will be ready tomorrow. My losing streak at the races is about to change.”

“Yes, and I think luck clones should go everywhere with their original,” Miss Curbston said. “One never knows when one will need some good luck, after all. I’d just said that, Miss Coleberry, and that’s what I asked your opinion on.”

“Not everywhere,” Eleanor told her. “But a good many places, yes.”

“Nonsense,” the Marquis said. “I’m going to keep mine locked in a barn until I go gambling.”

“If that’s the case, he’ll never leave your side,” General Jaywalker laughed.

Everyone laughed along with him, but Eleanor’s thoughts were already elsewhere.

She’d have to meet this new clone. If she liked him, he could prove to be very useful.

----------------------------------------

Mike had been bouncing on a trampoline for an hour straight. His muscles ached, he was desperately thirsty, and he had to pee. This wasn’t a good combination.

A clock chimed, and the greying velociraptor who had been slowly emptying a bottle of whiskey sat up.

“Stop. Off the trampoline,” he said, setting his glass down. “Now that you are tired and I am drunk, we shall fight.”

Mike stumbled off the trampoline, looking his defense tutor over. Jason, an older velociraptor, had been introduced as an ex-hunter. He had scars all over his body, only some of which were hidden by feathers. Mike wasn’t brave enough to ask what he’d hunted.

“The purpose of that was…” Jason trailed off, thinking. “Ah. You are young, energetic, and untrained. I am old, tired, and better trained than you’ll ever be. Now you’ve got the energy bounced out of you, and I’ve had my reflexes dulled. We should be at about the same level of fighting capability now. Go to the middle of the room, then come and try to hit me.”

“Yes, sir,” Mike said, walking a bit wobbily to the middle of the small room.

He paused, then ran forwards and tried to punch Jason in the face.

Jason easily ducked. “What was that?” he demanded. “Why did you use your forearms? Why did you aim for the face? No no no. And your balance was completely off. Try again.”

Mike went back to the middle of the room. He looked at the claws on his feet. “How am I supposed to hit you?”

Jason grinned, a terrifying look with far too many teeth. “I’m glad you asked.”

He bent down and shot forwards, crossing the room in less time than it took Mike to blink. Jason’s skull rammed into Mike’s chest, making him stumble back, and then the older dinosaur climbed up to Mike’s spine.

Once, long ago, Mike had adopted a kitten that would dig its baby claws into his legs and climb him like a tree. It was equal parts painful and adorable.

This replaced all the adorableness with more pain. Mike was forced to the ground, a stat box breifly flashing that he was bleeding. Jason pressed one large claw into Mike’s shoulder joint, and the other on his spine. Any movement Mike made would result in yet more pain.

“That is what you need to do,” Jason told him, and hopped to the ground.

Mike whimpered, still flat on the ground.

He looked at the blue box that told him he had three minor cuts.

“I wanted to be a capybara,” he told it.