"So let me get this straight," he says, tail twitching, "you mean to tell me—humans don't hatch?"
I pause. Slowly look over. "Nope."
"You don't hatch."
"Nope."
His eyes narrow. "Then what in the molten hells do you do?"
I stretch out, smirk up at the stars. "We're not reptiles, darling."
"Neither are birds. Or frogs. Or insects. And they all lay eggs. Don't change the subject."
"Still not the same."
"Then enlighten me, Miss Expert on Mammalian Madness. If you don't lay eggs, where do your little sticky spawnlings come from?"
I should have stayed silent. I should have just kept chewing. But nooo.
"They grow inside us."
He freezes. Neck slowly pivots toward me like he's hearing the beginning of a horror story.
"Inside."
"Yup."
He stares.
I grin. "Right in there. All curled up. Kicking your ribs. Pissing in the warm."
"In the same belly you use for snacks?!"
"Correct."
"That's revolting."
"You asked."
"Do they at least... chew their way out?"
"Gods, no!"
"Then how—no. No. No, don't say it."
"Through the—"
"Saya!"
I can't stop laughing.
He clutches his snout. "That is a shared-use orifice!"
"Welcome to mammal life."
"I knew you were a freak species," he mutters, pacing in tight, panicked circles. "But this is beyond. No wonder your people cry so much. Birth is a hostage situation."
"You're just mad your people get born in comfy little shells like fancy bonbons."
"Bonbons do not scream and bleed!"
I tilt my head. "You don't scream in the egg?"
"We hum," he hisses, scandalized. "With dignity."
"Oh forgive me, Your Scaliness. Next time I get pregnant, I'll be sure to hum as I tear open like a soggy bread roll."
He gags. Gags. The thousand-year-old death-lizard who once roasted a centaur alive for blinking at him funny, is gagging.
I throw a crust of bread at his wing. "Wimp."
He glares at me. "You people are biological war crimes."
"Still think I'm the hot one, though."
He exhales smoke. "Disgustingly so."
We sit in silence for a while. The fire crackles. A goat farts somewhere downwind.
Then:
"So… no eggs. Ever?"
"Only the metaphorical kind."
He sighs, long and heavy. "I need wine. And a bloodletting."
I nudge his tail with my toe. "Want me to describe breastfeeding next?"
He whimpers.
I win.