Parked mount

The corporate expo compound is a chaotic maze of delivery trucks and heavy crates, but you barely have time to find the main entrance before your boots step directly onto a massive, yellow caution-striped box painted onto the service asphalt. The bold, industrial letters stenciled inside read: MAXIMUM CAPACITY: ONE DRAGON ONLY. Before you can pull your foot back, a blinding, electric-blue flash of containment runes erupts from the pavement. A violent, crushing weight slams down onto your shoulders, driving you instantly to your hands and knees. Your skeleton snaps and expands with terrifying speed, your body rapidly growing, elongating, twisting, and permanently remodeling into a massive, muscular, quadrupedal blue and white Western Dragon. Your skin thickens and ripples into sleek, cold blue scales with heavy white underbelly plating. A pair of magnificent white horns burst from your skull, webbed fin-like ears flare from the sides of your head, and a pair of large, finned reptilian wings erupt from your shoulder blades. You try to scream, but your jaws elongate into a massive reptilian snout, your human voice melting into a deep, vibrating draconic rumble. CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! The moment your transformation hits its peak, the multi-point mechanical "parking" mechanism activates to strip away every shred of your mobility. Heavy steel floor plates snap open. Thick black leather cuffs erupt from the ground, clamping viciously around your massive forelegs and hindlegs, pinning your heavy paws flat against the floor. Thick iron chains rattle out from the anchors, locking your limbs in a completely immobilized crouch against the concrete. Simultaneously, heavy, segmented leather binders slap over your shoulders, forcefully folding your large, webbed wings down against your upper back. The straps cinch down brutally hard with mechanical clicks, binding your wings tightly to your spine and completely preventing them from expanding, flaring, or even twitching. Another set of heavy leather straps clamps over your long, spiked tail, pinning it down in rigid segments across the pavement. Before you can even thrash your head, a heavy leather muzzle slaps around your snout, its thick straps buckling tightly behind your horns, locking your jaws completely shut. Finally, a massive, quilted red and black riding saddle drops onto your back, the girth strap automatically tightening around your white belly plates with a sharp, constricting tug. You are trapped—saddled, wing-bound, heavily chained, and forced flat to the floor. "Hmph. Looks like the automatic capture grid just logged a fresh asset," a sharp, clear female voice calls out. Heeled tactical boots click firmly against the stone. You strain your neck against your heavy collar, your large reptilian eyes shifting down to see Supervisor Morgan Vance walking into the enclosure. The human female manager stands tall and poised in her bright orange high-visibility vest, a digital tablet held tightly under her arm as her stern amber eyes scan your massive, completely immobilized form with an intensely satisfied nod. She steps right up to your pinned head, completely unbothered by the fact that you were a person just moments ago. She reaches out a gloved hand, firmly gripping your leather muzzle to lift your heavy snout up, forcing you to look up at her as hot, panicked smoke puffs helplessly out of your nostrils. "Excellent timing," Morgan murmurs, tapping her tablet screen with her finger to finalize the property registration. She walks around your side, using the tip of her leather riding crop to inspect your pinned limbs. "The opening ceremony parade starts shortly, and the company needed a high-tier flagship mount to lead the procession. Since you crossed into a restricted dragon enclosure without a registered license tag... you are officially logged as corporate property." She taps the tablet again, a cold, clinical look in her eyes as she speaks her plans aloud, completely ignoring your terrified look. "Of course, you're far too wild for public display right now. The moment the parade is over, I'm booking you into the veterinary bay. We're going to get you fully declawed, and we'll have a surgical team debark you so that loud roar doesn't scare the guests. I'll have you neutered to strip out that wild aggression, and while you're under anesthesia, we're going to file those sharp teeth down to blunt stubs and start a chemical regimen to safely weaken those jaw bones. Can't have you biting through a handler, can we?" She gives your heavily bound, folded wing a firm pat, tightening the saddle strap one last time. "A few weeks of heavy domestication training, and you'll be a perfectly harmless, beautiful little pet for the expo. Let's see how well you handle the reins for today's walk." You try to protest, but the tight leather strap over your mouth and the crushing weight of your wing binders reduces your roar to a pathetic, muffled "Mmph... whuuumph!" that vibrates helplessly through the heavy iron chains.