How to defeat Starman Super?

Starman Super are vulnerable to PK Fire, PK Freeze. At this point in the game, it might be possible to Ness and co. instant win the fight if they approach a single Starman Super from behind while the party is around Level 60 and Ness is using the Casey Bat .

What is the drop rate for Starman supers?

The Sword of Kings is dropped by Starman Supers, with a drop rate of 1/128 .

How do you beat final Starman?

"The last in a distinguished line of starmen is also the strongest. Use Multi Bottle Rockets to blow it back into space . You can also put him under using Hypnosis."

How do you beat Starman DX?

This is the easiest boss in the game, aside from Master Belch. Just use a multi-bottle rocket with Jeff and bash with Ness, Paula and Poo . He'll be defeated in one turn.

What is the best weapon in EarthBound?

The Gutsy Bat (ガッツのバット) is considered Ness' best weapon in EarthBound. It raises his Offense by 100 and Guts by 127, making it the third strongest overall of Ness' weapons, behind the Legendary bat and the Casey Bat. It can only be obtained by being dropped by Bionic Kraken in the Cave of the Past, with a 1/128 chance.

How long does it take to get the Sword of kings in EarthBound?

Theoretically, (assuming you're averaging about three Starman Supers per minute), you should have the Sword within 45 minutes . Realistically, with complications, it will probably take you the plus side of an hour and a half.

What is Starman Deluxe weak to?

Starman Deluxe Appearance in EarthBound Stats HP 1400 PP 418 Guts 43 PSI strengths/weaknesses Fire 75% Freeze 50% Hypnosis 10% 5 more rows

How to defeat the ghost of Starman?

How do I defeat Ghost of Starman? When in battle with a Ghost of Starman, immediately put up a PSI Shield Σ or PSI Shield Ω to deal with the Ghost of Starman's Starstorm attacks . Defeat the Ghost of Starman after any Final Starmen and Evil Eyes, and before any other enemies.

How to defeat a heavily armed pokey?

Exp. To defeat the 'Heavily Armed Pokey' you should use your most powerful PSI Freeze attacks, use bottle rockets and well, standard attacks .

Where is the apple kid in EarthBound?

When you go to meet him at his house he is nowhere to be found. Speak with Orange Kid who is hanging around outside his house, he'll tell you that Apple Kid is over at Burglin Park. You'll find him under a tree at the southwest part of the park .

How do you beat Starman Jr?

How do I defeat Starman Junior? You cannot lose this battle. Buzz-Buzz will protect you, preventing your party from recieving any damage. Just bash the Starman Junior, or put on Auto Fight .

What to do after beating Starman Deluxe?

Now that Starman DX has been defeated, the base will shut down. Head into the next room and you'll find that all the hostages have been released! Talk to the Mr. Saturn to get the Saturn Ribbon for Paula .

How do you beat the Guardian digger?

Guardian Diggers have a relatively low amount of HP, but start battle with a power shield that they can strengthen with Shield β; the moles will also claw or tear into their targets. They are weak against PSI Freeze and PSI Flash, and can be defeated without even triggering the power shield .

What can poo equipment EarthBound?

His drawback is that he can only equip items from the "of Kings" set (the Diadem of Kings, the Cloak of Kings, the Sword of Kings and the Bracer of Kings) . Poo cannot use any weapons except his fists, the yo-yos, slingshots (both of which lower his attack) and a weapon exclusive to his use, the Sword of Kings.

Kind of Blue - StarmanSuper (2024)

Chapter 1: Samuel

Chapter Text

“–onna be another hot one out there, so be sure to throw an extra ice pack into your lunch pail, fellas! It’s 6 AM, and that means it’s time for living legend Miles Cratis and his smokin’ hot single, ‘So What’.”

The slow piano and bass intro to the song doesn’t quite knock the weariness away from my eyelids, but the moment that trumpet starts up the lingering hold of sleep all but evaporates, scattered to the wind by the piercing, perfectly timed notes. Sitting up from my prone position, the sheet draped over my mattress rises with me, affixed to the skin on my back with a thin adhesive layer of sweat. That radio jockey was right about two things: Miles Cratis is a living legend… and it’s another damned hot one today.

Swinging my legs over the side of the twin-sized bed, I roll my neck and stretch my back, hearing a few more pops and cracks than I’d like to. I don’t exactly feel old, but that rotten bastard Father Time keeps marching forward, dragging my ass along with him. But twenty-five ain’t that old, right? I mean, Miles Cratis was twenty-five when he released his first record, so I still got time to get my act together.

I bob my head along to the tune, one I’ve heard a hundred times now but still haven’t gotten sick of. This radio alarm clock is one of the best investments I’ve ever made; I’d give anything in the world to be able to wake up to music like this. O’course… I try not to think about the fact that I basically did give up everything else for this f*ckin’ clock. The house… the car… the record player… hell, the only other thing I got to keep from the divorce was–

“Woof!”

My eyes shift down to the shaggy carpet staring back at me, his beady black eyes barely visible past the strands of slightly curled white fur that hang over his head and down the rest of his body. His long tongue dangles out of his panting mouth as he looks to me expectantly.

“Good morning to you, too, Saxon. But what did I tell you about that barkin’ sh*t? The neighbors are already pissy enough with how big your ass is, we don’t need no more complaints to the landlord, ya hear me?”

Saxon lets out a quieter “Boof” in acknowledgement.

“That’s better. Let’s get you some water, ya lunk.”

He rises to all fours as I stand from my bed and follows me across the meager abode to the kitchen. “Luxury Apartments”, my ass. The only thing luxurious about this hole is the fact that the morning sun doesn’t nail me in the eyes through my blindless window, and that’s only because of that skyscraper they finished putting up across the way.

Old York City. “A City on the Rise”, they call it. Sure. Rising rent prices. Rising crime rates. Rising drug abuse. About the only thing that ain’t rising around here is job security, and if I don’t have my ass in Mr. Fontana’s office at 7 AM sharp, I’ll be lookin’ for a new f*ckin’ job at 7:01.

I let the stress of how tenuous my employment situation currently is melt away just as smoothly as Cratis’s trumpeting melds into John Coalmane’s sultry sax playing. My head unconsciously bobs along to the tune as I twist the kitchen faucet’s knob, filling the large plastic bowl lying in the sink with water. Once it’s topped off, I set it on the wooden floor atop its discolored circular groove. Saxon instantly sets to work on improving his art installation by clumsily slapping water into his mouth with his tongue, launching just as much liquid out of the bowl in his thirsty dervish. Ah well, f*ck my security deposit.

I swing open the creaking cupboard door suspended above the sink and grab another two bowls. In one, I dump a heaping helping of dog kibbles from a box featuring a smiling face not unlike that of my oaf of a roommate. In the other, I pour a similar serving of cereal, or “human kibbles” as I call it. I throw the refrigerator door open, feeling a blessed blast of cold air roll over my sweat-soaked form. I know the power company advises you don’t use your fridge to cool your home, but when you’re in a little dump of a sh*thole like mine without an air conditioner, you’re tempted to tell the power company to piss off. I reluctantly close the fridge, milk bottle in hand, and return to the two bowls.

… Which one was the cereal, again?

Damnit. I’ve made this mistake before, and I’m not about to do it again. They need to make this sh*t look a little bit different. I cautiously pluck a morsel from one of the two nearly identical bowls and gingerly place it in my mouth.

… That’s f*ckin’ dog food.

I spit the partially chewed chunk of meat byproduct and sawdust into the sink before placing the bowl containing Saxon’s feast in front of him. He scarfs it down before I even finish putting the cap back on the milk bottle after dousing my own breakfast. He eagerly follows me the two steps it takes to get from the kitchen counter to the tiny one-chair table stuffed into the corner, staring up at me and panting as I begin shoveling my slightly less disgusting breakfast into my face.

I feel a little bad for the poor guy. I’m at work for ten hours a day and asleep for another seven, so I don’t exactly have a lot of time to take care of him. Plus, with this heat and his shaggy mane I’m sure he’s hotter than a witch in Salem. I should bring him into a groomer… but money’s been so tight recently. I could just take a pair of scissors to him, I suppose. Can’t do any worse on him than I do on myself.

Setting both our empty food bowls in the sink, I top off Saxon’s water once more before making my way into the bathroom. I don’t need to let the shower heat up today, I’m jumping in while it’s ice cold. I’d much prefer my testicl*s shriveling up to literally melting off my body in this God-forsaken heat. I lather myself up, washing away a day’s worth of sweat and grime. My work isn’t particularly dirty, but lumping crates and boxes off of trucks can build up a layer of yuck. I really should shower before I go to bed so I don’t make my sheets gross. Well. With this weather, I’ll be sweating through the whole night anyway, so what’s the difference?

I run my fingers through the mop of short brown hair on the top of my head. A haircut would probably help me feel better in this heat, and I certainly don’t want to come across as one of those beatniks, but I just like the feeling of it being a little longer than average. My ex-wife never let me grow it out; nagged me relentlessly if it was even a quarter inch past her preferred length. f*ckin’ control freak. Thank God I got out of that mess of a relationship, even if I did lose my early twenties in the process. Double thank God we didn’t have any kids together.

The arid heat once again makes itself apparent as I shut off the water and step out of the shower, toweling myself off and staring lazily into the medicine cabinet mirror. “Nothin’ to write home about”... that’s how my ex put it when she’d describe me to her friends. Sure, I’m not a prize-winning stallion, but I ain’t no ugly bastard neither. That last year with her really makes it hard to remember the first few years. She was different back then, or at least acted different. I really thought she was the one… thought she was gonna be the woman I’d be raising a family with. Instead, after that f*ckin’ mess of a divorce, all I got is this lousy apartment with my clock radio and–

Boof.

“Yeah, yeah. I know you gotta take a dump, gimme a minute.” I slap some deodorant under my arms and brush my teeth, still listening to the jazz resonating from the bedside radio. ‘So What’ ended a few minutes ago; now they’re playin’ something by Charlie Larker. One of his tracks from a few years ago. I missed the radio jockey saying the name on account of being in the shower, but I recognize the tune. I wouldn’t call myself a jazz whiz by any means, but I know enough to tell a Yardbird from a Duke.

Unfortunately, I can’t spend any more time listening or else I’ll be late for work, and late for work means finding new work. I throw on a pair of clothes, tame my hair with a quick pass of my comb, and make my way out of the apartment with an eager Sheepdog in tow. The fourth floor means we got a handful of stairs to head down; thankfully, I’ve trained Saxon pretty well to follow me down the stairs so he doesn’t go barrelling through at full speed and knock Mr. Garbowitz on his ass. I happen to like the old codger, and I’d hate to see him break his neck on account of my dumb dog.

Once I throw open the front door of the apartment building, however, Saxon is a blur of white, launching past me and towards his favorite patch of grass by the road to pop a squat and do his dirty work. I take the opportunity to collect the paper from the front stoop. It’s not technically my subscription to the newspaper, but if I carry it up to Mr. Garbowitz’s door for him he doesn’t mind if I read it for a couple minutes in the morning. Leaning against the handrail next to the steps, I unfold the paper and give it a quick scan:

The Old York Times

Monday, August 24th, 201M1959 BC

“8 Prisoners Killed by Fire At Crowded Jail in Old Jersey”... Sheesh, that sucks. Downers on the first page.

“Steel Industry Wants U.S. to Act if Impasse Persists”... I thought about working towards becoming a steel worker, but so many of those guys in this area end up getting saddled with building those skyscrapers, and I am NOT good with heights. Wonder what this “impasse” is?

“Plan to Put Man Into Space Lags”... Heh. Good f*ckin’ luck. It’ll probably be 201M2000 BC before we get a man on the moon.

“G.O.P. For Delay On Civil Rights”... Civil Rights, huh–

“Get the f*ck out of my way, you skinnie fa*ggot!” I nearly jump out of my skin as an all-too familiar voice breaks me out of my headline-skimming daze. Instinctively, I push myself as far to the side of the staircase as I can, bending backwards slightly over the railing as the hulking form of the voice’s owner shoves past me and down the stairs to our apartment. He stops three steps below where I stand, which puts us at eye level with one another.

I avert my eyes, dodging away from his glare. “S–sorry, Roger. I didn’t see ya.”

He snorts, his impressively long blood red tail whipping back and forth as he leers at me. “People got places to be. You’re holding me up, you spear-chucking sh*t.”

I still don’t meet his gaze, only registering the crimson of his eyes through my peripheral vision. “I–I was just heading to work myself, Roger. I didn’t mean t–”

He cuts me off. “What kind of place would employ a skinnie like you? It ain’t a place I’m interested in patronizing.” I blink, unsure if he’s sincerely asking me to tell him where I work. I don’t want to start trouble with this guy, but I also don’t want him knowing that kind of information. Last thing I need is him trying to come around and tell my boss that I shouldn’t be employed there just because I’m a human.

Mercifully, Roger gets distracted by Saxon staring up at him, happily panting as he sits on the sidewalk. He glances from my dog to the fresh-squeezed present he left on the grass. His head whips back around to me, the pronounced ridges above his allosaurus eyes making his scowl even more evident. “Are you gonna clean up after your f*ckin’ dog or what, you disgusting troglodyte?! It’s not enough that I have to hear that f*ckin’ thing stomping around at all hours, I gotta look at its sh*t, too?!”

“I–sorry! Yeah! I’ll get it!” I sidle past him, being careful to not come into contact with any part of his scaled body lest he view that as an act of aggression and rip my head clean off my shoulders. I quickly pull one of the small plastic bags from my pocket and scoop up Saxon’s leavings. As I toss the bag in the nearby garbage can and stand upright again, Roger is an arm’s length away from me. He utilizes the closed distance to jab a sharp claw into my chest.

“You keep that mongrel under control or I’ll have the landlord kick your ass to the curb. You got that, you skinnie prick?!”

I avert my eyes again. “Y–yeah. Sorry, Roger. I’ll do better with him.” I glance down at Saxon who continues to look up at me with a slack-tongue smile on his face. Thank God he doesn’t view my downstairs neighbor as a threat; if he started growling at Roger it’d likely be the last thing the big walking carpet did before ascending to doggie heaven. And you can bet your ass the police wouldn’t spend very long looking into the matter.

With a triumphant smirk, Roger finally removes his finger from my chest and stomps down the sidewalk away from me, jamming his hands into his pockets as he goes. I let out a sigh of relief before starting the usual fare of internally beating myself up for being such a puss*. f*ckin’ sh*t… if I had more of a backbone I wouldn’t stand for being treated like this. I mean, yeah, things still aren’t easy for us humans and cro magnons, but they’re a hell of a lot better than they were thirty years ago. Still… most dinosaurs view us as second class citizens. Old York is one of the most progressive places in the country, and even here the prejudice is inescapable.

And what would me standing up to Roger even do? Probably earn me an early grave. Dinosaurs are f*ckin’ terrifying with how strong they are… it’s a big reason why they were so much higher on the pecking order than us skinbags were for so long. Sure, humans and cro magnons came up with tools a little earlier, but it’s because we don’t have built-in spears and cudgels on our fingers and tails like most of those scaled bastards got.

I look down at Saxon once more, realizing I’m running low on time. With a flick of my head I gesture for him to follow me back upstairs, and he obeys. My apartment building is sandwiched between two other similarly sized structures, sharing walls on all sides with the behemoth of a construction taking up this city block. An apartment amidst apartments, a building amidst buildings, somewhere in the labyrinthine expanse of Brachlyn. And I’m one guy out of over eight million humans and dinosaurs that call this concrete jungle home.

On the second floor landing, I toss the newspaper onto the placemat in front of Mr. Garbowitz’s door. It’s still early, and since he’s retired he likes to sleep in ‘til about 8. Like Roger, Mr. Garbowitz is a dinosaur, though he’s an old gallimimus fella instead of an allosaurus jackass. Unlike Roger, Mr. Garbowitz is a pretty nice guy. Despite being older, he doesn’t treat me like a piece of sh*t just because I’m a different species. Even invites me over for dinner once every few weeks. Granted, I’m polite to him and bring him his papers, and given his age and reduced mobility, I think he’s just happy to have a friend.

I finish the trek upstairs, passing Roger’s third floor door on the way up. I really have tried my best to be nice to the guy, but he just hates me outright. Only thing I can do is keep my head down around him and not cause trouble. Arriving at my fourth floor home, I swing the door open to let Saxon back in the apartment. Before I can close the door, however, I realize I left the radio on. As much as I like the local jazz station’s tunes, Saxon is pretty indifferent to them, so it’d be wasted electricity to play it for him all day while I’m at work. I have to cut John Coalmane’s ‘Blue Train’ a little short; no disrespect, but duty calls. With a quick scruff of Saxon’s head which he reciprocates by flopping his heavy tail back and forth on the floor beneath him, I throw on my flat cap, lock up and head to work.

The walk isn’t a long one, though the heat tries its damnedest to ruin the trip. I lost the car in the divorce and sure as hell can’t afford one now, so my two legs do my commuting for me. I might look into getting a bicycle, especially if I ever have to work farther away than I am right now. Even if I were to get a car at some point, there’s more and more of those suckers on the streets every day, and these roads aren’t gonna get any more lanes than they got right now. It’s not quite to the point of standstill jams, but you hear more and more Ford, Buick, Chevrolet and Cadillac car horns every day.

I pass by a handful of street facing shops on the way to work: an ice cream parlor, a corner market, a pharmacy… there’s even a record shop that I stare longingly into on days when I’m not in as much of a hurry. No time to daydream about starting my record collection again right now. I do make a quick stop at the produce stand and toss the lady working it a nickel for a juicy red apple. Only eating cereal for breakfast isn’t great for me, so I do my doctor proud and chomp down the tasty fruit as I complete my journey, throwing the core into a garbage can outside my place of employment.

Sal’s Butcher and Grocery. A pretty sizable establishment that brings in several trucks worth of meat and other goods every day to cater to its clientele. The place opens at 5 in the morning and usually has a gaggle of women waiting as they unlock the front door, but since the trucks don’t start showing up ‘til about 7:30 I don’t have to be in until 7. I’m not too keen on moving through the crowd inside the shop proper, so I make my way through the alley and in through the back door next to the loading dock.

… Sheesh. Given the heat, maybe a stroll through the air-conditioned store might have been nice. There ain’t any cool air back here, except for inside of Mr. Fontana’s office, and you usually only get to go in there when it’s your first day on the job… or your last day on the job. I step up to the time card puncher on the wall outside of the office and withdraw the slender brown sheet of cardstock with my name on it: Samuel Lawson. I slide it into the grooved slot above the small clock and pull the lever on the side of the device, the familiar kerchunk adorning my time card with a punch and a stamp of my clock-in time: 6:58 AM. Cut it pretty close today, but we’re still–

“SAMUEL! GET IN MY OFFICE NOW!”

… f*ck. What did I do? I’m on time! I push my time card back into its home and cautiously open the door to Mr. Sal Fontana’s office. He watches me as I maneuver into his chambers, the large glass windows facing the loading dock giving him perfect line of sight to everyone who works the back of the house. The parasaurolophus’s sharp emerald eyes remain locked to me as I close the door behind myself and turn his direction. I quickly snatch the cap from the top of my head in a show of respect and pacifism. I gulp before speaking. “Y–yes, sir, Mr. Fontana?”

He doesn’t reply immediately, choosing instead to narrow his eyes as he seems to size me up. I really need this job. If I did something bad enough to get fired, I’ve got no clue what it was. I have to fight against my knees to keep them from knocking into one another.

Finally, after a moment of consideration, he speaks up. “How long have you been working for me now, Mr. Lawson?”

Mr. Lawson? I don’t think he’s ever addressed me by my last name before. “Uh… just about nine months now, sir.”

“And in all that time, you’ve never taken a sick day and never clocked in late. You even stayed after your shift a handful of times to help with other tasks, is that right?”

Despite the cool air flowing into the enclosed space from the window-mounted air conditioner, I still feel beads of sweat accumulating on my brow. “Th–that’s right, sir. I always work hard, sir.”

He narrows his eyes at me again. Mr. Fontana has never come across as an overly anti-human guy, but he’s got no qualms kicking me or my kind to the curb if we put even a single toe out of line. Dinosaur employees usually get second chances; we don’t. He considers for another moment before exhaling from his nostrils, a slight smile gracing his lips. “Good. I’m glad to hear that. You’re doing well so far.”

I didn’t realize I was holding my breath, but I exhale it all the same. “Th–thank you, sir!”

The smile instantly falls from his face as he takes on a serious, down-to-business tone. “I need you to do something for me today. It’s not a hard task, but it is very important that it is done correctly. Do you understand me?”

I blink before nodding enthusiastically. “Yes, sir! Whatever you need!”

He gestures for me to come around to the side of his desk. I do so cautiously, being careful to not crowd his space. As I come into eyeshot of the drawer on his left side, he pulls it open. Within is a plain white envelope containing… I’m not sure what. Whatever it is, there’s a lot of it. On the front of the envelope is a single word, scrawled in Mr. Fontana’s distinctive handwriting: “Dues”.

“In a few hours, a couple of guys are gonna come around looking for this. I need you to give it to them. Do not take it out of this office before they get here. Do not look inside of it. Your job is to hand them this envelope and that’s it. You got it?”

I nod again. “Yeah, I got it. Seems easy enough.” I pause for a moment. “Um… you won’t be here when they come in?”

He lowers his head at me and narrows his eyes again. “If I was, I wouldn’t need to ask you to do this, now would I?”

“S–sorry…”

Another exhalation from his nostrils. “I’d prefer that I was here, but my wife’s aunt died. Need to be at the funeral in a few hours.”

I think for a moment before realizing I’m pretty much the most tenured employee in the loading dock area. There’s a few front of house managers, but they almost never come to the back of the house to do anything but grab stuff to restock their shelves. Things are too hectic and busy in the shop. All the same, I can’t help myself but ask the question: “... You sure I’m the right man to do this for ya?”

Mr. Fontana narrows his eyes at me again. “Less so now that you just asked that.”

Stupid. Why’d I say a stupid sh*t thing like that. I try to salvage myself. “No–I mean–is, uh… is there someone else–”

He cuts me off. “I’m giving you a shot here, Samuel. Don’t screw this up and I might look into promoting you to supervisor. Screw it up and your ass is gone.” I almost catch a hint of nervousness in his last sentence. I really shouldn’t screw this up.

“... How will I know the guys?”

Mr. Fontana rolls his eyes. “Aside from the fact that they’ll be the guys asking for my labor union dues?”

Ah. I got it now. These guys are gonna be with the Herdsters, that labor union that pretty much every shop in the neighborhood is associated with. There’s been a few other labor unions that tried to muscle in over the past year, but those efforts usually fizzle out. Not sure why they never seem to catch wind. Well, doesn’t really matter to me. Those unions are almost exclusively for dinosaurs anyway.

He gestures with his head towards the loading dock. “Don’t let me keep you. Get to work.”

I snap out of my haze. “Y-yes, sir! I won’t let you down, Mr. Fontana!” He gives me another small smile and a nod as I exit his office. Closing the door behind myself, I let out a decompressing breath. Not only do I still have my job… I have a chance to make my boss proud and maybe even get a promotion. I’d definitely better not screw this up.

Placing my cap back on my head, I make my way across the loading bay towards the large sliding dock doors. The first truck of the morning is still a few minutes away, but we got plenty to do before it gets here: move empty crates, sort out the staging area, and make sure everything’s as ready as it can be when the deliveries arrive. If there’s one thing delivery drivers hate, it’s wasted time, so we do everything in our power to make our side of things as smooth as possible.

“Sammy! Everything okay, buddy?” A familiar voice calls to me from the other side of the loading dock. I look up from the handful of crates in my arms to the concerned frown of one of my coworkers, another human like myself. He pushes his thick-rimmed glasses up his nose as he looks past me towards Mr. Fontana’s office. “You… ain’t in trouble, are ya?”

“Nah, Bernie. I’m good. Just got assigned a special project for later is all.” Bernie is a pretty swell guy. Only started here about two months ago, but he’s a hard worker despite his age. He hasn’t told me outright but I think he’s pushing fifty.

He lets out a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank goodness. I was worried, after what happened with Max last week…” Max was an example of the short rope we are extended, and what happens when you step off the edge of the hangman’s platform.

I shrug. “Told him he needed to get his ass here on time. But nah, I’m good. Come on, let’s get this sh*t moved over so we don’t hold up the produce delivery.”

The next few hours go by without trouble. Around 10 AM, Mr. Fontana puts on his trilby and exits his office, keys in hand. He’d normally lock the door; instead, he glances my way. When I make eye contact with him, he taps his wristwatch and nods at me. I nod back to him, fully aware of the task assigned to me. I’ve been thinking about little else for the past few hours. In fact, I take special care to never take my eyes off of his unlocked office door unless I absolutely have to. Unless a poltergeist makes its way in through the air vents and whisks that envelope away, it’s not going anywhere until those labor union fellas get here.

Around 12:30 me and the other guys working the loading dock take our lunch break. It’s well timed between a few trucks so nobody’s waiting on us to eat and get back to work. Some of the guys pack their own lunches, but I usually go across the street to the sandwich shop with Bernie and get a cold cut. Today, however, I can’t let that office out of eyeshot, so I hand Bernie a quarter and ask him to grab me a turkey on rye. He agrees and starts to set off to retrieve our lunches.

Just as Bernie reaches for the handle of the back door it swings open, nearly knocking him on his ass. He stumbles backwards, his mouth hanging open in preparation to shout at the reckless clown who just burst through the portal. However, he can’t find his words as the color drains from his face. His eyes move up… far up the towering form standing before him. The rest of the boys in the loading dock similarly shut up as they stare towards the figure striding with purpose towards Mr. Fontana’s office.

The behemoth of a stegosaurus stands at nearly seven feet tall, his midnight blue scales bulging off of his arms as they desperately try to adhere to his muscles. His plated tail swings back and forth defiantly as he cranes his neck around, making note of every person in the room. He wears a black sports jacket over his pressed white shirt; in combination with his well-tailored slacks and mirror-polished shoes, he gives off the air of a dinosaur who owns whatever room he’s standing in.

His eyes come to rest on me, the person closest to the office. He speaks in a cold, gruff voice. “Where’s Sal Fontana?”

I nervously clear my throat before responding. “H–he’s not here. C–can I help you with–”

In two rapid strides of his long legs, the stegosaurus crosses the space between us. He literally overshadows me, coming between the light fixture hanging from the ceiling and myself. He glares down at me with a level of intensity that nearly makes me stumble backwards.

His words are deliberate and carry a condescending tone, as though he’s speaking to a small child. “Can you go get him for me?”

I am petrified. Stammering, I manage to respond. “H–he’s n–not in the s–store. A–are you–”

He slowly brings his sharpened beak only a few inches away from my face. It’s quite a lean, considering our height disparity; his lips curl back. “I am here for his dues. And you’re telling me he’s not here?”

My eyes dart to the lapel of his sports jacket. I notice a small golden pin bearing the insignia of the International Brotherhood of Herdsters. If I had any doubt in my mind as to who this man was, it’s gone now. I muster up what little courage I have left to reply. “I c–can get that for you!”

It seems he didn’t expect this response, leaning back as a look of puzzlement and disgust washing over him. I take the opportunity to zip over to the office, throwing open the door and moving to the desk drawer containing the envelope. Sure enough, it’s still where Mr. Fontana left it. I withdraw it, feeling the weight of what has to be a small stack of bills, and move back to the entrance of the office. The Herdster man now stands at the door, his massive form blocking the portal entirely. If the need for me to escape arose now, my only option would be diving through one of the windows.

“Mr. F–Fontana asked me to g–give this to you! Here!” I extend the envelope towards the hulking stegosaurus. His eyes linger on me for another moment as he seems to contemplate whether to accept the envelope or twist my head around a hundred and eighty degrees. Mercifully, he settles on the former, snatching the dues from my hand with another sneer.

He extends a claw from his other hand in my direction before he speaks. “You tell Sal that the next time we come by to collect, it’s him here, not some skinnie f*ck.” Before I lower my eyes in acknowledgement, they rest for a moment on a leather shape dangling between his sports jacket and overshirt. A leather shape that… seems to hold another, more lethal shape.

My eyes dart down to the floor. “Y–yes, sir! S–sorry, sir!”

With a final growl, he spins on his heel and strides towards the exit. As he throws it open, I see the shape of another dinosaur standing outside; he turns to acknowledge the stegosaurus, but before any of their words can be worked out, the door slams shut behind them. The echoing sound of metal against metal is followed by that of my knees hitting the wooden office floor beneath me. The other guys quickly dash over to check on me, Bernie pushing his way to the front of the small crowd.

“Holy sh*t! Sammy, are you okay?! What was that?!”

I have to catch my breath before I can reply. “Remember that special project I mentioned? That was it.”

“Raptor Jesus, that was intense. I thought he was gonna kill you!”

“I’ll be honest, I kinda thought that, too.”

Bernie helps me get back up to my feet. “Well… if you don’t have to stick around anymore, you wanna run across the street for that sandwich with me?”

With a weak smile, I hold out my hand, palm upwards. “Actually, if you don’t mind, I’ll just ask for my quarter back. I lost my appetite.”

The excitement of our close encounter with a massively intimidating dinosaur wears off just around the time the next delivery truck backs itself up to our loading dock. I feed off of the adrenaline from my confrontation for a while, but the fact I skipped lunch catches up to me before too long. I fight off the growling of my stomach by humming some of my favorite jazz tunes to myself as I work. Unfortunately we’re not allowed to have a radio in the loading dock, and even if we did, me and the other four guys who work back here would have to agree on what to listen to. Sure, we could take turns or something, but I’m content to just listen to the jukebox in my brain.

Around 3 PM, Mr. Fontana rolls back in. He immediately approaches me, asking if everything went well. I tell him that it did, no problems, but opt to not relay the parting words of the labor union representative. He gives me a warm smile and a clap on the shoulder before heading back into his office. I hope he meant what he said about a promotion; I could certainly use the extra money, but I won’t press him on the matter.

We wrap up work at about 5 PM, using brooms to push the collected dust and debris from the day’s work out of the loading dock and onto the concrete below. With a stretch and a roll of my shoulders, I set the push broom in its corner and head over to my time card. As I punch out for the day, I glance through the window of Mr. Fontana’s office. Scribbling away at some paperwork, he doesn’t notice my look. Well. Like I said, I won’t be pushy. If the gears are turning in that direction, that’s good enough for me.

Offering the other fellas a final “Good night,” I start making my way home. The heat was brutal today, but seems to have broken ever so slightly as the sun makes its way lower in the sky. It won’t be nightfall ‘til well past 8 PM, but any respite from the scorching sun at all is welcomed at this point.

With my hands stuffed into my pockets, my head lowered and my stomach still doing its own musical number, I distract myself as best I can with another tune. I can always count on Miles Cratis to come through for me when I’m feeling down. The gentle, rhythmic tapping of the drums and cymbals… the fresh sound of the tickled ivories… the back and forth of Cratis’s jaw-dropping trumpeting and the accompanying alto and tenor saxophones… it all fuses together into a jam session full of beauty and hope. The sound of our time. The sound of humanity.

I stop myself. For some reason… something about my humming sounded a bit off for a second. Like it wasn’t just me doing it.

I glance over my left shoulder. Nothing but a dark alleyway there.

I glance over my right shoulder. Nothing but a bus stop bench there. Except…

The slender shape of a velociraptor woman is seated on this particular bus stop bench. Her hands are planted on the elongated seat on either side of her, the fingers of her right hand barely touching an upright paper grocery bag filled with various items. She wears a formal-looking business dress, neither revealing nor eye-catching. Its modest blue color is a few shades darker than the light blue of her scales. Her feathered tail, only a slight bit darker than the rest of her, sways back and forth as the foot attached to the leg crossed on top of the other bobs slightly in a steady rhythm.

I listen closely.

… She’s humming, too.

In fact, she’s humming the same tune I was. I take a step closer, circling a little to see if she was purposefully trying to join in with me or if it was pure coincidence. She doesn’t seem to take note of me, her closed eyelids allowing her mind to focus only on the sound of the song in her head.

I cautiously take one step closer and quietly clear my throat before speaking up. “... Excuse me, miss?” Her humming abruptly stops and her eyes shoot open as her head spins in my direction. I hold out my hands apologetically. “I–I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you…”

She lifts a hand to move some of her short blue hair away from her eyes. It doesn’t go any lower than her shoulder, a modest and professional look for a working woman like herself, no doubt. When her eyes meet mine, I realize they’re about the only part of her that isn’t some shade of blue… instead, I’m met with bright, piercing yellow orbs of light. The sunlight seems to dance across them, her diamond pupils shifting slightly as she evaluates me.

After a moment, her posture relaxes. “... It’s fine. I was in my own head for a second. What did you need?”

I scratch the back of my neck. I realize the absurdity of my next question, but can’t come up with a better way to ask it. “Erm… uhh, well, I was just… walkin’ by, and it… well…” I straighten up and manage to spit the thought out. “... Were you humming ‘So What’? By Miles Cratis?”

She leans away from me a little, clearly taken aback by my question. Her eyes widen slightly as she processes my words. After a moment, her tail flicks and a small smile appears on her lips. “... Why, yes. I was.”

I can’t help but smile back. “I thought so! I–well, sorry for the out of nowhere question, but I was humming it too as I was walkin’ by!”

She raises an eyebrow at me as she maintains her smile. “Is that so? A fan of his work, too?”

I nod enthusiastically, taking a small step closer to her. “Yes, ma’am! I love his music. Real genius on the horn, total revolutionary.”

She shifts her posture to turn a little more in my direction. “You can say that again. His new record is breathtaking.”

I awkwardly chuckle. “Well, I mostly hear him on the radio. No shortage of his stuff on the local jazz channel, though.”

She lets out a gentle hum. “Pleasure to meet a fellow jazz enthusiast.” She shifts the hair away from her face again, her slender claws brushing the strands aside as her yellow eyes remain focused on me. I know for a fact I’ve got a stupid grin on my face, but I hope to high heaven that my dumb caveman cheeks ain’t glowing. My ex-wife always teased me about blushing; it was one of a hundred things that gradually turned from a cute jab to a searing critique as our marriage fell apart.

All the same… I feel a twinge in my heart now. I’ve got no earthly clue why. This is a dinosaur broad. I mean… she’s pretty, as far as dinosaurs go, but… nah. That sh*t doesn’t happen. Species stick to their lanes, even today. I think I’m just happy that I actually met someone else who enjoys the same music I do. A dinosaur, even…

A dinosaur that enjoys jazz, music that most dinosaurs rebuke as muddy, pointless noise made by neanderthals banging objects together and blowing into hunks of metal and wood.

She pauses for a moment to think before opening her mouth to speak again.

I’d have loved to have heard what she was gonna say next… if it weren’t for the gunshots that interrupted her.

Chapter 2: Aubrey

Chapter Text

“—all for today’s smooth as silk traffic report. Anyway, it’s gonna be another hot one out there, so be sure to throw an extra ice pack into your lunch pail, fellas! It’s 6 AM, and that means it’s time for living legend Miles Cratis and his smokin’ hot single, ‘So What’.”

The dulcet tones of the piano and bass intro to one of my favorite songs of all time washes away my slumber. Without realizing it, my tail begins twitching in beat to the tune. I feel the smile spreading across my face as I lift my head from the pillow, but…

Bringing a hand up to my cheeks, I feel the wet remnants of tears. Goddamn it. I had that dream again. It doesn’t happen every night, but when it does, there’s always waterworks. Alright, pull yourself together, Aubrey. It was just a dream. I’m not gonna ruminate on this. Not again.

I throw my legs over the side of the mattress, focusing instead on the sultry saxophone and torrid trumpet emanating from my clock radio. Miles Cratis. What an artist. And I heard he’s in town, too. I’d love to see him play in person. I tap my foot in rhythm with his pitch-perfect trumpeting, feeling a flutter in my stomach with each rise and fall of the notes. Those humans really know how to work magic with their instruments.

I try to bring myself up to my feet, but my right knee locks up and buckles under the pressure, bringing my ass back down on the edge of the bed. f*cking thing. I start extending and retracting my leg to work the kink out of my muscle. I’ve been keeping up with my exercises every night, so why the hell is this thing still giving me grief? Am I doing something wrong, or is my doctor just an idiot?

After a minute of repeating the motion, I make a second attempt to stand up. This time, my knee cooperates and doesn’t give out underneath me. I don’t let the annoyance get to me, choosing to focus on the music again as I take care of my morning rituals. My one-bedroom apartment isn’t anything to take pride in, but it gets the job done. I could go with a cheaper one and save a bit more money, but I’m not too hard-up for cash these days. Certainly think I could be making more, though… and doing more…

I turn on the shower, giving it a few moments to warm up a little. It’s definitely another hot day today, but my air conditioner is doing the Lord’s work. Granted, I’ve never minded the heat all that much, but a lot of my coworkers have been complaining ceaselessly, especially the fellas out running the beat. I tuck my hair into a shower cap before stepping into the porcelain basin, being sure to leave my tail hanging out on the other side of the curtain. I wash my hair and tail every few days, and today isn’t one of those days. I’m happy to have the extra twenty minutes to myself on mornings when I don’t have to deal with cleaning and drying all the hair and feathers.

Sufficiently cleansed, I cautiously climb out of the shower, taking care to not set off my trick knee again. It must be the heat that’s getting to it. I’ll just be careful with my movements today and I’ll be good as new tomorrow. My usual morning evaluation in the mirror goes the same as it always does; I frown as I observe the two scrawny legs, the nearly visible rib cage and the pathetic A-cup breasts that make up the sorry excuse for a woman looking back at me. Not that I’m in the market for a man after… after everything that…

That was nearly eight months ago. I can’t keep living in that shadow. I can’t—

My arms involuntarily wrap around my stomach and I nearly double over as the emotions try to claw their way to the surface again. Not right now, Aubrey. Fight it. You’re already over this. It’s in the past and you’re stronger than it. You have to be stronger.

My ears register the sound still resonating from my radio. It takes a moment for the music to become recognizable past the rapid beating of my heart and my labored breathing.

Charlie Larker. ‘Blues for Alice’. 201M1956 BC. One of the finest examples of Bird Blues around, by the Yardbird himself. I have the track on vinyl and put it on from time to time. It’s not my favorite Larker standard, but it’s a damn good one. The sound of his sax pushes the dreadful feeling in my gut back below the surface, calming me down enough to release my grip on my body and continue my morning prep in a more relaxed state of mind.

Gently bobbing my head along with the beat, I finish up my daily beautification, if you can call it that. I don’t spend very long on makeup; the guys at the station give me sh*t for it, but I don’t care. I’m there to do a job, not turn heads. I make my way over to my small bedside closet and withdraw a blue work dress. Nothing fancy. Practical, comfortable and professional; just the way I want it to be.

As I finish getting dressed and giving myself one more review in the mirror, I glance around my apartment. Besides the music, there’s no other sound here. It’s… a bit lonely, to be honest.

Maybe I should get a pet. But what would I get? I sure as hell don’t want to be a cat lady. Twenty-four is way too early to give up and turn into an old maid. O’course, ain’t that what I’m on the way to doing?

No. Shut up. You’re fine. Just get through the week, like you always do. And, hell. It’s Monday. I can make my usual request. I’ve been putting up excellent numbers, he can’t keep stonewalling me forever.

Shutting off the radio, I give the apartment one last visual sweep before heading out, being sure to lock the door behind myself. It’s not a rough neighborhood, but I’ve got quite a record collection I’d be really pissed to lose. At least I’m on the second story so some asshole kids jimmying open the window and crawling in ain’t an option, but I still rest easier knowing my place is locked up.

Maybe a dog, then? It’d be a burglar deterrent, at least. I’d have to train the little furball, but it might be nice to have a friend, even one that can’t communicate with anything beyond a wagging tail and an occasional bark.

I’ll think about it more later.

The summer heat rolls over me in a thick wave the moment I push open the front door of the apartment building. Climate control is both a blessing and a curse; you love it when you’re encircled by it, and you desperately miss it when you’re not. It’s not too long of a walk to the bus stop, and I time my mornings pretty well so I don’t spend very long waiting. That is, so long as the line is running on time.

Thankfully, that is the case today as the green and white chariot pulls up only about a minute after I arrive at the bus stop. The ride is around ten minutes, give or take based on stops we make. I’ve come to recognize most of the other passengers on the morning route, but I haven’t gotten to know any names. I don’t enjoy talking to strangers much, being content to just spend my ride in my own head, listening to my internal record player.

On the platter now is another Miles Cratis standard, ‘Milestones’, its upbeat and rhythmic flow perfectly matching the hustle and bustle of the Old York morning commute. My fingers tap on my knee in tandem with the notes of the horn and sax as they back and forth with one another, not quite dueling but not quite acquiescing ownership of the song either. I’ve listened to the track so many times that it plays perfectly in my internal ear.

After a moment, I realize my eyes are closed. Got carried away by the melody. Not that I distrust anyone on the bus, but it’s not wise to be completely unaware of your surroundings whenever you’re in a city like this. As I regain focus of the cramped world around me, my eyes come to rest on a human gentleman seated across from me. He’s one I’ve seen frequently; though it’s not quite every day, most days he’s on this same line with me in the morning. A real fidgety individual, seems like he can never get comfortable, always wringing his hands or trying to keep his restless leg from bouncing too furiously. His thick bottlecap-lensed glasses magnify his nervous eyes as they dart around, seeming to always be on the lookout for attack.

I can’t exactly blame the fella. He’s a scrawny little guy, and the bus has a fair number of dinosaurs on it. I’ve heard a few dinos mutter slurs his way under their breath over the weeks. Personally, I’m not keen on the idea of viewing humans as a subservient species. Things were different a lot of years ago. Humans are people just like we are, capable of just as great of things. Jazz wouldn’t be what it is without the contribution of humans, after all. Hell, it probably wouldn’t even exist.

Today, though… something’s off about him. He seems more nervous than usual. What would normally just be mousey behavior comes off as downright petrified as he keeps shooting glances all around the bus, seeming to anticipate an attack at any moment. Sweat is pouring from underneath his pinstripe cap, more than just this heat would be responsible for. I wonder what’s got him so flustered?

His eyes meet mine and linger for a moment before he offers a meek smile and turns his gaze downwards. It doesn’t rest on the bus floor for long, however, as he resumes his search for whatever assailant he fears. I just shrug and go back to my internal music. None of my business.

A few minutes later, we arrive at my stop. I give the co*ke-bottle human one more glance before I depart; he wipes a tremendous amount of sweat from his brow with a handkerchief and seems to mutter something under his breath, taking careful note of everyone who gets on the bus. I may not know the guy beyond recognizing him from these morning commutes, but I certainly hope he gets through whatever’s got him so terrified.

Stepping down from the small set of stairs that direct me to the sidewalk, I gaze up at the structure before me. Its impressive architecture is only partly responsible for the respect it commands over Brachlyn Avenue and the nearly nine square miles of its jurisdiction. The letters emblazoned around our state crest make up for the rest of its grandeur:

Old York City Police Department

Precinct 63

My little home away from home. My place of business. And a place where I want to do so much more. I know for a fact that I can be more good to Brachlyn on these streets than behind a desk pushing paperwork every day. But there’s only one person who stands between me and that dream. And his office is my first stop, just as it is every Monday morning.

I push open the massive wooden doors atop the stone steps leading up to the building’s face. Within, a spacious lobby holds a reception desk and an oak staircase leading to its second floor. All the trappings of a police station you’d imagine from a wild west movie are hidden from sight, the various holding cells concealed in the station’s sublevels. Here, it’s calming decor, wood trim paneling and pleasant atmosphere that greets those who use the building’s primary entrance.

I’ve got my destination set. I make a right down a short hall and locate the most official looking office in the building. As I gently swing open its door, the burly brown pterodactyl seated behind the intimidatingly-sized desk does not lift his gaze from the paperwork spread out before him. Without making eye contact with me, he mutters, “Yes, Carter. What is it?”

I stand up straight and look towards him with as much confidence as I can muster, my tail twitching slightly due to the nervousness I always feel when I ask the same question. “Commissioner, I’d like to request entry to the Police Academy.”

He lets out a sigh and raises his eyes to meet mine. “Carter, we’ve been over this a hundred times.”

I pause a moment before speaking. “Then let this be a hundred and one, sir.”

He shakes his head. “No, Carter. That’s still the answer.”

“But, sir—”

He abruptly cuts me off. His voice is stern and holds absolute authority. “You are a clerk, and a damn good one at that. I know how much you want to move up, but it’s just not possible.”

I won’t give up that easily. “Sir, just last year they started allowing women to—”

“I know what they started doing. Some other precincts already have lady officers, and that’s fine by me. I’m sure we’ll have some here, too, eventually. But you won’t be one of them.”

I foolishly ask the question, but I already know the answer he’s going to give me. “Why not?”

His eyes flick down to my right knee, then back up to me. The expression on his face is both weary and sympathetic. “I don’t know how many times I need to tell you this, Carter. You’re a good clerk, and you may have even been a good policewoman. But with that knee… you wouldn’t even make it a week through the Academy.”

I have to bite my lip to keep tears from starting to form in my eyes. “It’s getting better, sir. I’m doing exercises.”

He shakes his head again, seeing right through my lie. “A beat cop who can’t keep up with perps can’t serve our city. You might have a chance in some backwater town where the worst crimes being committed are chicken theft and disorderly conduct. Out here… I need people who are at their best.” He places his hands on his hips and looks down his beak at me with regret. “I’m sorry, Aubrey.”

He doesn’t use my first name often. When he does, it stings like hell. One of the only other times he had done so was shortly after my accident. He visited me in the hospital. Even brought flowers. It was an incredibly kind gesture of him, considering I was only working at the precinct for about a month at that time. I was basically catatonic, conscious and aware but unable to speak to or acknowledge those around me. When he sat next to me and put a hand on my shoulder, he used my first name:

“I’m terribly sorry this happened to you, Aubrey. Truly sorry. I can’t even imagine.”

I quickly lower my head, pushing the thoughts of that experience as far down as they will go. I mutter the words, but my voice cracks as I speak. “Thank you, sir.” I barely see the commissioner’s remorseful look past my clouded vision; I manage to make it out of his office and a few steps down the hall before the tears start falling.

f*cking… not now. Not in the office. I dart into the nearby women’s bathroom. It’s empty, not a surprise given that there’s only a few other women who work in this building, all of whom perform clerical duties like I do. I snatch several paper towels from the dispenser and dry the tears from my face, taking care to not ruin the small bit of makeup I applied. I don’t cry when the commissioner tells me “no”; it’s a weekly occurrence, only causing me to steel my resolve and work even harder towards next week. But today, I blame the dream I had. Dredging up old memories. Terrible memories.

I have to be stronger than my past.

Composing myself with one final look-over in the mirror hanging over the sink, I exit the bathroom and make my way up to the second floor. As I head towards my desk, I spot a couple of large white boxes on a nearby table. Stereotypical, given the locale, but…

Screw it. I didn’t have breakfast today, and I could go for a little pick-me-up. I throw open the box adorned with an uppercase “E” and withdraw a tasty-looking doughnut. Herbivores don’t exactly agree with eggs, so the other box contains doughnuts prepared without. Being a carnivore, I much prefer the taste of those made with unborn chicken.

I munch on the sweet fried round, already feeling my woes dissolve in its sugary bliss, and make my way towards the desk adorned with my name placard: Aubrey Carter. A small stack of paperwork already waits for me, and the pile won’t stop growing throughout the course of the day. My duties involve processing these tedious forms, tickets for minor violations mostly. Checking them for accuracy, making sure the cop who filled it out in the first place did what he needed to do, and stuffing envelopes with reminders of varying severity for tickets that have gone unpaid. All in a day’s work for a woman who’s apparently not fit to do anything but this menial and repetitive task.

Thankfully, they let me keep a small radio by my desk. So long as I don’t have the volume cranked loud enough to bother anyone else, I’m allowed to listen to whatever I want. The dial never moves from the local jazz station. The music helps me get through the day, transforming tedious busywork into melodic therapy. Regardless of how sloppy the forms I’m passed are, I never get frustrated when I’ve got my friends on the other side of the radio waves keeping me company.

“—over there’s the break room, and this is where most of the paper pushin’ gets done. Speaking of…” The voice is that of Officer Duffy, a seasoned cop who’s been working this precinct for over ten years. His slicked back hair makes way for the two pronounced ridges on the top of his dilophosaurus head. He gestures in my direction. “This here’s Aubrey. She’ll handle processing your ticket and citation paperwork as you bring it to her.”

The dinosaur he speaks to is a younger guy, one I don’t recognize. Must be his first day at the precinct, if not his first day as a cop. I feel a twinge of jealousy as he glances at me, quickly covering it up with my reply to Duffy’s introduction. “Aubrey Carter. And I’ll process your paperwork if you bring it to me filled out proper-like. I ain’t gonna do your job for ya.” I extend a hand to the rookie, a spinosaurus with massive, rigid extensions of vertebrae that form his namesake spine. The tailor must have had a hell of a go with his uniform to accommodate that particular protrusion.

He accepts my handshake, offering a sideways smile. “Officer Preston.” He holds my hand for a moment, glancing down at the nameplate on my desk. “’Aubrey’, huh? Ain’t that a fella’s name?”

I withdraw my hand from his. “It isn’t, no. Not exclusively, at least.”

His grin widens. I don’t like the sense I get from this guy. “But all the Aubrey’s I met have been fellas.” He scans me up and down; I involuntarily recoil away from him slightly. His sneer turns downright menacing in response. “You one of them bull dykes or what?”

My mouth falls open in shock, but before I can reply Duffy claps the back of his hand across Preston’s chest. “Enough of that, you numbskull. Aubrey is a fine worker. Don’t give her sh*t on your first day. Come on, I’ll show you the garage next.” Duffy starts to lead Preston away as the spinosaurus’s eyes linger on me a moment longer to gauge my reaction. He seems happy with the one he got and, with a chuckle, follows his tour guide down the stairs.

I slump back in my chair. Are you kidding me? A bull dyke?! The f*cking nerve of that sleazeball. And Duffy didn’t even correct him. Granted, me and Duffy aren’t best buds but he f*cking knows I ain’t no lesbian. I was married, for Christ’s sake. I—

My heartbeat begins to accelerate and the pain in my stomach makes itself apparent once more. Phantoms rattling their chains inside my mind and body yet again. I nearly keel over from the wave of despair that lashes out at me.

The sounds of horns playing in perfect rhythm with one another backed by a gentle piano, smooth bassline and light drum and cymbal taps break me free from the dreadful memories trying once more to worm their way forward. ‘Doxy’. Sonny Rawlind. 201M1954 BC, originally recorded with Miles Cratis. It’s sometimes mistakenly credited to Cratis for composing it, but it’s a Rawlind track all the way. I have two versions of it on vinyl, and both sing the sweet song of what’s possible when two of the greatest jazz minds put their skills to work on the same track.

I slowly lower myself back into my chair, remaining conscious of my breathing as I go. It was a close call, but I’m good now. I can’t keep having these fits, though. This just won’t do if I’m trying to prove to the commissioner that I’m ready to move up. He thinks my knee is the problem, but if I freeze up every time my past knocks on my door I’m really gonna be useless.

I keep my head down and make it through the rest of the workday. The music helps keep my mind off things. A lot of the fellas around the station think I’m antisocial. A few tried being friendly, one even asked me out. I don’t really try to be closed off. I just find myself not interested in their conversation, not interested in opening up to them. Nobody ever compliments my music, either. They just make snide remarks about it, tell me to turn off the racket, usual sh*t.

Just another day blending into another day. A cycle that’ll keep going until I pull myself out of it with effort. I’ll prove my worth. I’ll get this knee fixed up and I’ll achieve what I know I can achieve.

As the hands of the clock nearly complete their journey towards punch out time, a familiar burly pterodactyl man wanders over by my desk. I glance up from the last bit of paperwork I’m processing to meet Commissioner Aaron’s focus. He looks down at me with a stern expression. He’s a tough man to get an emotional read on, but I can’t help but sense a twinge of sympathy in his eyes.

He opens his mouth to say something, stops, considers for a moment, then plops two slender pieces of cardstock on the desk between us. “Fella dropped these off at our station. Not sure why, his nightclub ain’t in our jurisdiction. Might have just been trying to curry some favor with the OYPD all around town, I don’t know. I was gonna toss ‘em, but…” He glances at the radio next to me, quietly emanating one of the last songs it’ll sing before I shut it off for the day and head home. “Well. You’re the only one in the office with a taste for that sort of music. Figured, why let ‘em go to waste?”

I co*ck my head at the commissioner before looking down at the items he placed on my desk. As the words printed on the slender slips register in my mind, my eyes widen and my breath hitches in my throat.

Birdland Nightclub presents

Miles Cratis

Tuesday, August 25th, 201M1959 BC

8:00 PM

Admit One

My gaze shoots back up to the commissioner. “HOLY SH—” I cut myself off, seeing his eyes narrow. He’s a pretty staunchly Catholic guy and doesn’t abide cursing around him. I feel my cheeks redden as I try to recover. “Commissioner! Are—are you sure I can have these?!”

He shrugs. “It’s this or the waste basket for ‘em. Yours if you like.” He gives me a nod and a slight grin. “Have a good evening, Carter.”

I can’t stop the smile that tugs at my lips. “Y-you too, sir!” As he takes his leave, I pick up the tickets with shaking hands. Holy sh*t. Holy sh*t. I can’t believe it. These things are like platinum, those shows have been sold out for months before they even started. And I’m holding two tickets in my hands.

Two tickets…

I feel a twinge of regret, knowing I’ve got nobody to invite. My family’s all out of state, and I really don’t have any friends to speak of. I get along okay with a few of my neighbors, but nobody who would understand an opportunity like this. Sure, I might get someone to agree to come, but they’d probably be bored the whole time. And that’d be too disrespectful to Miles Cratis to bring someone who won’t appreciate his craft the way it needs to be appreciated.

No. I’ll go by myself. I take one of the two tickets and motion towards the trash can next to my desk.

I can’t do it. I can’t throw something like this out…

Alright. I’ll keep it. Maybe on the way into the club there will be some poor schmuck at the door begging to be let in, and I can make their night. That’d be a lark. But one thing is for certain: I’m going. I wouldn’t pass up an opportunity like this for the world.

With renewed vigor, I gather my things and clock out for the day. The music follows me even after I shut off the radio, a venerable cacophony of exuberant instruments blaring in my head as my own excitement for tomorrow night plasters a stupid smile on my face. In a brief moment of clarity as I exit the station, I remember that I need to stop at the grocery store. Ran out of some necessities, and a gal’s gotta eat.

I don’t even try to keep my tail in check as I stroll down the sidewalk towards Sal’s Butcher and Grocery; it sways back and forth, coming close to clipping other folks traveling the other direction down this same pathway. It’s a metronome of my own delight, keeping rhythm with Miles Cratis’s personal performance for only me.

The grocery store is packed, as usual. Mothers and wives hurriedly fill their baskets and trolleys with the finest groceries around. A slew of herbivores seem to be battling over the best quality vegetables on display. The employees wrangle the store as best they can, filling empty slots in shelves and checking out increasingly irate customers as quickly as possible. I even spot a man or two, lost and confused in the chaos that is quite possibly the best grocery store in the city.

I deftly dodge a pair of pachycephalosaurus who are practically colliding their hardened heads against one another as they argue over ownership of a particularly juicy head of lettuce. One of the advantages of being a carnivore in this world is that some sections of the grocery store are less traveled and less brutal. I step up to the butcher’s counter and order a pound of ground beef. I think a hamburger sounds fine for dinner tonight.

Rounding out my short trip, I pick out a package of buns, a shiny tomato and a head of lettuce, opting to select from the less contentious portion of the display. Lettuce is lettuce, I’m not about to get in a fist fight over produce like some of these ladies. I bring my small selection of goods to the checkout line, and a few minutes later and a couple dollars in my purse lighter I’m on my way home.

Stepping back into the slightly cooler but still hot early evening air, I can focus on my internal jazz again. The radio inside the grocery store was playing some crappy pop music, favored tunes of the placid masses. You don’t have to think too hard when you hear the same boring four-chord structure over and over. I much prefer the complexity and bravery of jazz. They experiment. They have fun. Not everything works, but when it does, it’s truly remarkable.

The bus stop is only a minute away from the storefront. My timing is less on point in the evening, so I sometimes have to wait a little while for a bus. Still beats hoofing it the three miles away I live, especially on days when my knee is being a little prick. It’s felt pretty good since this morning, but my rejection by Commissioner Aaron keeps it in the forefront of my mind. I’ve gotta do something about it. Maybe ice it in the evenings, or try some different exercises. I need to fix this so that I can go into the Academy. I know it’s a silly pipe dream, but I haven’t wanted anything more than to be a police officer since I was a little girl. I was laughed at in the schoolyard, being told that girls can’t be cops, but now that the times are changing my dream might be attainable, if I can just get past this stupid handicap.

I take a seat on the bus stop bench, setting the paper bag of groceries at my side. Nobody else is waiting for a ride; if someone does show up, I can move the bag to give them a spot to sit, but for right now it’s me and the summer air. I remember the tickets in my purse and smile again as Miles starts playing his horn for me. ‘So What’, one of his newest songs and an absolutely beautiful composition. It woke me up this morning, and now it finds its way into my mind again. I can’t help but close my eyes, relax in the calm moment, and softly hum along with his genius.

“Excuse me, miss?”

My eyes fly open as I turn to focus on the source of the sudden, interrupting voice. A few feet away, a human stares at me, his cheeks instantly brightening as he holds up his hands in an apologetic gesture. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you…”

I push some of the hair away from my eyes. I keep it short, but it still likes to intrude from time to time, especially when I spin my head like I did to see who was addressing me. The human is pretty normal looking for a human: tanned skin, brown hair that’s a little longer than average but nowhere near long enough to make me question his gender, and dirtied work clothes. Must be getting off his shift as a… well, whatever it is he does that builds up a layer of grime like that. Still, he doesn’t come across as a slob, politely standing before me and awaiting my response.

I realize I’m still pretty tensed up from being startled. I loosen my shoulders and feel my tail feathers start to unbristle themselves. “It’s fine. I was in my own head for a second. What did you need?”

He brings a hand to the back of his neck and scratches, glancing away nervously. His bright cheeks light up even further. “Erm… uhh, well, I was just… walkin’ by, and it… well…” His eyes meet mine again as he seems to steel his resolve to ask what he wants to ask. “Were you humming ‘So What’? By Miles Cratis?”

What the—how did he know? Was I really humming that loudly? And—well, Miles Cratis is a popular jazz musician, but I don’t know that I’ve ever met anyone who would recognize his work that quickly, and especially by way of my butchered humming. I love the sounds of jazz but I know for a fact I don’t replicate it well with my voice. What’s with this guy?

All the same… I can’t help but feel a smile tug at the sides of my mouth as I offer him a reply. “Why, yes. I was.”

His posture immediately loosens as he returns my smile. “I thought so! I—well, sorry for the out of nowhere question, but I was humming it too as I was walkin’ by!”

My eyebrow lifts in his direction. “Is that so? A fan of his work, too?”

He nods his head and takes a step closer. I don’t register the gesture as being threatening or flirtatious. In fact, I don’t even know this guy’s name and I somehow feel relaxed around him. He speaks through a widening smile. “Yes, ma’am! I love his music. Real genius on the horn, total revolutionary.”

I rotate a bit more in his direction, my crossed legs remaining so as I return a bit of his enthusiasm. “You can say that again. His new record is breathtaking.”

He lets out an awkward chuckle. Between it and his reddened cheeks, he’s kinda…

“Well, I mostly hear him on the radio. No shortage of his stuff on the local jazz channel, though.”

I can’t help but let out a soft hum. What the hell is getting into me? I try to wrap up the conversation politely, the bus should be here any minute. “Pleasure to meet a fellow jazz enthusiast.” My hair intrudes on my eyes again; I brush it away and attempt to give him a courteous smile and nod, hoping the gesture will illustrate to this fellow that our social transaction is concluded, but I can’t manage to find the expression. My eyes linger on him for a moment longer than I intend them to. His cheeks are absolutely burning red. Doesn’t come across to me as a shy sort, but maybe one who doesn’t interact with dinosaurs the most gracefully. Of course, it’s hard for humans to interact with us when there’s still so much societal pressure to navigate, but…

Something about him is different. Who is this guy that just randomly stopped and questioned me on my humming? He was able to pick out Miles Cratis’s tune from my tone-deaf rendition. He must be a jazz fan with a keen ear to be capable of such a feat.

His eyes remain locked to mine, their gentle blue offering a reflection of my own. Human eyes are smaller and house a round, black pupil whereas dinosaurs have diamond-shaped pupils that are often similarly colored to our irises. Many dinosaurs find human eyes to be boring and lifeless, not communicating as thoroughly as the eyes of our own species. But I don’t agree with that sentiment. Instead, I find myself examining this man’s eyes closely. They seem… kind.

A kind-looking human who likes jazz.

My mind wanders to the spare ticket that my purse holds. Would it be too brazen of me to ask him to join me? That would seem like I was asking him on a date, wouldn’t it? And I don’t want…

Or do I?

I open my mouth to reply, but my words are cut off before they even form by a loud, echoing pop. It’s shortly followed by a second, then three more in rapid succession.

Gunshots. And they’re not far away.

My head whips around to the nearby alley. Those shots were only a block away, maybe less, and this will be a direct route to the scene.

The man who was just smiling and blushing at me a moment ago is jolted from his own hold by the sound, flinching before spinning in the same direction as me. “Holy f*ckin’ sh*t, was that gunshots?!”

I’m on my feet. Cop or no, I’m not standing by if someone just got shot. My tail knocks the grocery bag to the ground as I take off, scattering my groceries across the concrete. I don’t take a second look at them as I tear down the alleyway in the direction of the sound.

Footsteps behind me. This human is following me, running a few feet behind. Why?

“Are you f*ckin’ crazy, lady?! Usually you go in the opposite direction of gunshots!”

There’s no time to explain everything to him, so I lie instead. “I’m a cop!”

“Holy sh*t, really?! Well, then, go get the bastard!” Though he’s given me his blessing, he still runs after me.

I glance over my shoulder in irritation. “This is dangerous, you shouldn’t be—”

He suddenly stops as we round the alley corner, his eyes widening immensely as he looks past me. I follow suit, spinning to see what he sees.

Propped against the brick exterior of one of the buildings forming the edge of this alleyway, a man struggles to breathe as he claws at several perforations in his chest and stomach. A slicked vertical trail of blood on the wall behind him denotes where he slid down to his seated position, and the gurgling from his throat indicates how much time he has left if he doesn’t get help.

My eyes launch upwards and away from the wounded man, the new perspective of the rounded corner offering only the faintest glimpse of someone fleeing. The tip of a tail is all I see that sprints around the corner of an adjacent alley across the street.

The shooter.

My feet launch me in the direction of the fleeing form as I shout over my shoulder. “Get him help! I’m going after the suspect!”

No response. There’s no time to check on the jazz enthusiast who followed me to the scene of a crime; I’ve got more pressing matters to attend to. Namely, proving my worth and catching this perp who just attempted murder. I charge across the street, hearing the screeching brakes and blaring horn of a delivery truck as I make the dangerous maneuver. No time to apologize to that driver.

I make it across the street and into the escape alley. I’m close. If I can just get around that corner I can ID the suspect and—

CRACK!

No. No, no, f*ck no, not now.

My hands shoot in front of me to break the fall as best I can as my knee seizes up, instantly halting my sprint and sending me hurtling to the paved ground in the alleyway. Several jagged pieces of gravel embed themselves into my palms and elbows, the searing ache and burgeoning blood rivulets causing me to grit my teeth. I didn’t get around the corner, but if I can at least see…

I start crawling on my elbows, pulling my worthless leg behind me as intense pain fires from my right knee. f*cking thing. f*cking piece of sh*t. I can’t miss this chance. I can’t—

Just as I arrive at the corner, heaving myself as far forward as I can in one final lunge, the telltale sound of screeching tires informs me that I’m too late. They got away. Their getaway ride was stationed a block away, and they only had to outrun an enfeebled and crippled woman pretending to be a cop to get away with shooting a man in broad daylight. Goddamn it. Goddamn this f*cking knee. Goddamn this worthless woman.

I bring my fist down on the concrete below me, flecking blood from my palms across the ground with the motion. No tears fall; only bitterness and hatred reside in my mind now.

The commissioner was right. I can’t be a cop.

Slowly, I place a hand on the brick wall next to me and try to swing my right leg around to unlock my knee. The motion is painful, both due to my bloodied palm and the angle I have to wrench my leg to bring it in front of my seated posture. My dress is absolutely ruined, scraped and ripped beyond recognition between my tumble and subsequent army crawl. Bracing myself, I put my hands on either side of my knee and pop the joint, feeling both screaming pain and relief in one motion. My leg can move properly again but feels tremendously weak due to the strain.

Using the wall for further leverage, I pull myself up to my feet, being careful to put as little weight on my right leg as I can manage. Thankfully, my tail helps to counterbalance my stance, so unless my knee seizes again the odds of me taking another tumble are low. In embarrassment and dejection, I limp back to the scene of the crime, hearing the sound of an approaching siren as I arrive next to the man I left behind in my pursuit.

He’s as white as a ghost. I don’t see any vomit on his shirt or on the ground, but I worry that a stiff breeze might knock him over. He stares past the individual who was shot towards a small indentation on the adjacent alley wall. The crevice holds several garbage bags of unknown age, many of which are split open with trash strewn about, likely the doing of rats. I doubt the locale holds any significance; the jazz enthusiast seems to be staring into space.

As I arrive at his side, I place a hand on his shoulder, both to get his attention and to steady my own balance as my knee continues to threaten me with immobilization. He barely reacts. Before I can say anything to him, my eyes rest on the victim. His arms hang limply at his sides, and his neck no longer holds the weight of his head. I don’t consider myself squeamish, but I still gasp, not at the revelation that this body no longer houses a soul, but as the characteristics of this man register with me.

Large, co*ke-bottle lenses dangle at the end of his nose, magnifying his now-lifeless eyes just as much as they always did. A pinstripe cap lays on the ground next to the human, aiding in collecting some of the blood that escaped onto the concrete. His frozen expression of terror offers a conclusion to what had him so frightened this morning.

I never even got to ask him his name.

I turn back to the human standing next to me. His face is one of shock, his eyes wide and his mouth frozen slightly agape. I don’t blame him. Seeing one of your own kind gunned down like this… it’s a lot for him to take in, I’m sure.

The sound of squealing tires and squad car doors being thrown open clue me in as to what’ll happen next. I get the man’s attention by gently squeezing his shoulder, he turns my way, still not blinking and still managing his breathing as best he can. I offer him as comforting a smile as I can. “The cops are here. They’re gonna ask you a bunch of questions, but don’t panic, alright?” He gives me a meek nod, his face still ghostly white.

Though it’s a tall order with a dead body only a few feet away from us, I do my best to lift the heavy air hanging over the alley. “I’m Aubrey Carter. I never got your name, fellow jazz enthusiast.”

His color returns ever so slightly. “Samuel. Samuel Lawson.”

Chapter 3: Pierce

Chapter Text

“–find yourself out in Cavemanhattan, watch out for a jam around 52nd and Broadway. Old York jazz seems to attract all sorts of cool cats, even during the morning commute. That’s all for today’s smooth as silk traffic report. Anyway, it’s gonna be another hot one out there, so be sure to throw an extra ice pack into your lunch pail, fellas! It’s 6 AM, and that means it’s time for living legend Miles Cratis and his smokin’ hot single, ‘So What’.”

The sound of what I assume to be a combination of plates being smashed on the ground and a cat being strangled resonates through the thin wall of our bedroom. I grunt, trying to roll over and tune out the racket to get a few more minutes of sleep, but the cacophony will not halt its invasion attempt in my ear canal. With a huff, I throw the blanket off of my once cozy form and roll out of the bed I so desperately wish I could have spent a few more minutes enjoying.

I don’t take any time to stretch or scratch my ass. I immediately stomp into the hallway and to the closed door concealing the hideous screeching, bringing a fist to it several times in rapid succession. I speak loudly and authoritatively so there is no mistaking my mood:

“RUSSELL! How many times do I have to tell you?! Turn that sh*t down in MY house!”

A scramble on the other side of the door is followed swiftly by blessed relief for my irritated eardrums, then by the door being thrown open. My frazzled son stands before me, still about a foot and a half shorter than I am but with some growing left to do yet. He speaks in a cracking, pubescent voice. “S–sorry, dad! I thought you were still asleep.”

I blow a puff of air from my nostrils as I look down at him in irritation. “Was. Not exactly the alarm clock I want. What the hell are ya even listening to in here? If you wanna hear jackhammers on concrete I can take you over to all that construction they’re doin’ on Stegen Island.”

Russell glances at the radio, a newer adornment for his bedroom. He asked for it for his birthday last week. f*ckin’ thing wasn’t cheap, but money’s pretty good right now. I didn’t mind springing for it, but if he’s gonna be listening to racket like he was…

“I–it’s called jazz. It–”

I growl. “I know what jazz is. f*ckin’ noise made by skinnie mongrels.” Russell recoils at my words slightly. It’s an irritating habit, most likely instilled by pansy teachers at his school telling him how everybody is equal and special. Weak words for weak people…

“Pierce Signorelli, you leave that boy alone and come get some breakfast!” The voice calling from downstairs is that of my lovely wife, Bianca. I glance toward the staircase, then back at Russell. He continues looking up at me with his dark blue eyes, his even darker blue plated tail swaying slowly as he waits for dismissal from my scolding. Spitting image of his old man.

Ah. Well, it was an annoying way to wake up, but now that the noise is turned off I ain’t mad anymore. I give the boy a wink and a grin. “C’mon, son. Let’s go get some grub.”

He happily returns the smile. “Sure thing, pop!”

I speak over my shoulder as I start heading down the stairs. “Go ahead and get your sister up. Lazy girl’s probably still in dreamland. Don’t let her roll over and fall asleep again, either.”

Russell knows the drill. “You got it!” I hear him cross the hall to his little sister’s room and open the door, speaking quietly in order to gently wake her up. He’s a good kid. They’re both good kids. A little too soft, but… they should have their innocence for a little longer. The world is a f*ckin’ prick, no reason to shove them into the filth until necessary.

They’ve got it about as nice as they can right now, though. Spacious house, each with their own bedroom, plenty of toys. Hell, we’ve even got a television. Not a rarity like it was ten years ago, but still… these kids got things I never even dreamed of. So much at their fingertips. They ain’t never gonna have to scrape like I did. Like I still do sometimes.

Life of luxury like this comes with some costs, after all.

I duck under the ceiling lip as I reach the bottom of the stairs. We got us a house with nice high ceilings to accommodate my height, but there’s still a couple spots where I can brain myself if I’m not careful. Turning the corner toward the kitchen, I see my beautiful stegosaurus wife hard at work doing what she does best: keeping the home. The smell of sizzling mixed greens on the stovetop makes my stomach growl instantly. Carnivores like to tease us herbies sometimes about not having access to the same flavor profiles they got. Dumbasses, they just need to marry a damn good cook like I did.

I cross the kitchen in two steps, bringing my head next to that of my wife so she can give me my morning kiss. She obliges, a glowing smile on her face as she does so. “Morning, Pierce. Not being too hard on Russell this morning, are you?”

I give an innocent shrug. “I just wanted him to turn down that radio was all. Trash can lids being banged together ain’t my style. Now, if he was tuned in somewhere playin’ some Bing Clawsby I wouldn’t have had reason to bemoan him!”

Bianca giggles. “That boy might be growin’ up to look just like you, but that doesn’t mean he’s gotta like the same music as you!”

I let out a sigh. She’s right, of course. The rock of my foundation, this woman. And… hell, I wouldn’t mind if he was listening to some other music made by upstanding dinosaurs. But that wretched jazz sh*t… purely the product of skinnies. Filthy subspecies. If I tried to list out every single problem that’s been caused by their kind, I’d be at it for a f*ckin’ week.

Well. I don’t need to start my day off bad. I’ve got my wife, my two beautiful children, a spacious home, and a solid payin’ job. They ain’t taken those from me, and if they tried I know I can tear them apart with my bare hands. Thank you Raptor Jesus for letting me be born into this body. Fellas around the office always complain about the fact that they gotta work so hard at the gym to even come close. For me? I hardly exercise save for the hoofin’ I do during my errands. There’s a reason us dinosaurs were the superior race for so long.

Why we still are, far as I’m concerned.

I take a seat in the chair at the head of the table, its large frame capable of supporting all six foot eleven inches of my height and three hundred eighty pounds of my dense bones and muscle. The grooves carved into its sides give my tail somewhere to go when I sit, though my plates do still get caught sometimes. I’ve taken the chair a few feet toward the living room with me a few times after supper. Always makes the kids giggle and the wife scold me for bein’ clumsy about it.

While Bianca finishes up breakfast, I go to pick up the morning paper. She already retrieved it from outside and set it next to my place. She’s a damn good woman and a great wife. As I pick it up, I notice the scales around my knuckles are healing up pretty well. A bit of red is still visible under the midnight blue of my hand, standing out due to the disparity in hue. Bianca never asks me how I got the cuts, bruises and broken knuckle scales I occasionally come home with. She knows my work is heavy work sometimes. She just helps me put some alcohol on the wounds and bandage ‘em up if needed. Even discreetly threw out a couple changes of my clothes that were too tattered and bloodied to be washed. And it usually wasn’t my blood that stained ‘em.

Damn good woman.

Just about the time the kids make their way downstairs, four plates of succulent cooked greens are set on the table, one at each place. Russell excitedly plops into his chair and begins digging in immediately while Angela more sluggishly finds her own place, yawning widely and wiping the residual sleep from her eyes. Girl’s only nine years old but acts like she’s always in need of a nap.

I glance at my son and daughter from over my newspaper. “You two forget to say somethin’ to your mother?”

Russell hastily swallows his mouthful of food before turning to Bianca. “Good morning, mom. Thanks for breakfast!”

Angela yawns again before speaking quietly. “... G’mornin’.” Maybe we need to push her bedtime up.

Bianca smiles widely at our children as she takes her own seat. “Good morning, you two! Dig in while it’s warm!”

The four of us enjoy a peaceful breakfast together, Russell excitedly telling me what he plans to do with one of the last free days of his summer break. School will be starting up again in a couple weeks, so he’s getting in as much play time with his friends as he can in the meantime. With his build, I’m hoping he’ll try out for the football team once he’s eligible. He’d be a monster of a linebacker.

Angela has friends, too, but seems to prefer being with her mother, shadowing Bianca as she does her daily tasks and errands. Bianca dotes on both the kids, which is her God-given right to do since she’s the one that gave birth to ‘em. Angela is certainly more attached to her mother than me, but that doesn’t upset me. I’m here to provide for the family and be a father; if Angela wants to grow up to be a woman like her mother, she’ll have to learn everything she can from her.

They’re both good kids. I’m very proud of them.

Bianca glances my way. “So, Pierce. What’s on your work schedule for today?”

I glance at the front of the newspaper that sits next to my place at the table. It’s August 24th, which means it’s close to month end. “If I had to guess, I’ll probably be playing the part of errand boy today, collecting dues from some of the places in town.”

She nods. “Think you’ll be home in time for supper?”

“Probably, unless something keeps me late. I’ll give you a call if anything comes up that’ll prevent me from bein’ home.”

She gives me a smile and we finish up our breakfast. As Bianca clears the table and washes the dishes, the kids make their way to the living room, turning on the TV to “veg out” for a little while until their mother collects them. Russell mentioned playing with some friends, so I imagine Bianca will drop him off somewhere, then attend to some errands with Angela in tow. We’ve got two cars so it’s no trouble for us to do things like that. I head back upstairs, take care of my morning preparations, and get myself dressed.

Despite not having the highest post at the Local 237, I was always taught to dress for the job you want. The job I want ain’t the one I got right now. Even though I’ve got some family connections, it seems like the higher-ups are dragging their feet with putting me in a more comfortable position, still having me do things like run errands and handle messy jobs. I know I’m good at what I do now, but I don’t want to be stuck in the same place forever, ya know?

I button up my pressed white shirt before affixing and tying the slim necktie under its collar. I sling the leather straps of my shoulder holster over my arms and tuck the snub nose .357 into its concealed home. I’ve had this particular pistol for a few weeks now. They only ever last until they get used. No reason to get overly attached to ‘em. I pull on the black sports coat that completes my preferred look, give myself one last glance in the mirror, and head out.

I slide behind the steering wheel of my jet black Cadillac DeVille. Brand new model, just came out this year. As much as I want to move up in my business, the money I make now is still good enough for me to afford a few luxuries, and this is one of ‘em. It drives like a dream. There’s plenty of room for my bulk, and four doors to accommodate when I have to play chauffeur. I love the car almost as much as I love my own children.

My house is in a quiet suburb on the outskirts of Old York City. The city keeps expanding, and someday it might overwhelm even where I’ve planted my roots; for now, the neighborhood grants serene escape from the chaos of downtown. The tradeoff is that it’s about a twenty minute drive to get to the office, but it don’t bother me. I like the peace and quiet of a solo drive. Don’t have to listen to motormouth fellas who think they’ve got a lot to say. I’m not exactly a silent guy myself, but I understand that there’s a time to talk, and a time to shut your yap and use your ears.

I bring my car around the back of the impressively sized building from which I do most of my daylight-hours operation. Standing at six stories tall, it isn’t the tallest building in eyeshot but for where it rests in Brachlyn it commands respect. The seal emblazoning its front entrance, featuring two pack mules flanking a wagon wheel engraved with our letters, is one everyone knows, for better or worse. Sure, our organization has gotten in a little hot water over the years, but we still do what needs doing, and we provide a valuable service to millions of hard-working dinosaurs across the country. It’s somewhere I’m proud as hell to work:

The International Brotherhood of Herdsters

Local 237

Most folks use the front entrance. That’s where you’ll find pristine offices filled with women processing the mountains of paperwork that come in every day, and men who will shake your hand and hear your case when a labor lawsuit arises. It’s the part of the business that keeps us running, keeps hard-working fellas safe in their jobs from abusive bosses and unfair work environments.

I use the back entrance. Not that I have anything against the front entrance, I just got no business up with the pencil pushers and hand shakers. My business is conducted around town for the most part, and what I need to do in the office takes place behind closed doors or, more often, not in the Herdsters building at all. If we’re discussing heavy work, it’s not being done here. Too many chances for unwelcome ears, especially given the government’s hard-on against us the past few years.

Monday mornings are usually pretty standard, however. Things ain’t falling apart and calling for my special brand of fixing too often this early in the week. Instead, I end up getting assigned menial tasks. Deliveries, pickups, basic grunt work. Stuff I should have grown out of a few years ago, but still end up getting tasked with.

“Pierce, how ya doin’ this mornin’?” The familiar voice that greets me as I push open the sublevel door attached to the underground garage is that of a diplodocus with a wide smile to match the hand he offers me in greeting. His brownish color accentuates the tweed of his own sports jacket. He’s a little more casually dressed than I am, but professional enough to put on the right appearance for who we’ll be interacting with today. His lengthy neck technically lets him beat me in the height department, but if we were measuring based on shoulders I’d have him by at least a foot.

I accept his proffered hand in greeting. “I’m not too bad, Marty. How’re you doin’?”

“Ay, can’t complain. The wife, though… phew. You wasn’t kiddin’ when you said the month leading up to our kid bein’ born was gonna be rough.”

I chuckle, knowing all too well how ornery the women can get as they near the special day. I dealt with it twice already, and, God willing, that’ll be the only two times. I love my kids and wouldn’t be upset if a third made its way into my life, but we certainly ain’t tryin’ for it. I imparted some of this fatherly wisdom to first-time father-to-be Marty a few months back. Hopefully he remembered the part about being patient with your wife and getting her however much ice cream she wants.

Marty and I exchange a little small talk as we make our way further into the building. The basem*nt level is a bit more spartan than upstairs, with less decoration and more unmarked doors, most of which lead to rooms with filing cabinets stuffed full of paperwork. The door we pass through, however, brings us into a simple room with a wooden conference table flanked by a dozen or so chairs. This morning, two of the chairs are occupied.

The first is filled by the form of the dinosaur I expected to see in here: my boss, Charles Rossi. Very professional fella, he don’t go by Charlie or Chuck. One of the guys tried calling him Charlie once when we was at the bar after work. Ended up getting a bottle broken over his idiot skull. Had to tip the taxi driver pretty good after he bled all over the back seat on the way to the hospital for the stitches he had to get. Charles is a professional guy unless you f*ck around with that you ain’t supposed to f*ck around with.

The gray-colored triceratops looks up at Marty and I as we enter, giving the same courteous smile he always offers us. Despite the chiseled appearance brought on by several menacing scars on his face, he has a pleasant way about him when he’s in a good mood. Must be in a good mood today. “Morning, gentlemen. How are the two of you doing?”

Marty speaks up. “Doin’ well, Mr. Rossi. Wife’s only about a month away from her due date.”

Charles’s smile widens. “That’s wonderful to hear, Marty. I hope she’s not too much trouble for you.”

“Oh, no. Not at all. Well… she can be a little grouchy, but she’s doing all that heavy lifting so I don’t mind.”

Charles turns my way, expecting a similar response to his original inquiry, but I don’t offer it. Instead, my eyes are affixed to the second figure filling another of the dozen chairs in this room. A weasel of a human looks back at me from behind ridiculously thick lenses, his unsettling eyes magnified to twice their normal size. He nervously fidgets with his cap, clasping it in both hands in front of him, its pinstripe patterning doing little to distract from how ugly he is even when he wears it pulled down tight.

I grit my teeth and scowl. Eggsy… what a f*ckin’ stupid name. Not that the name would work well even for a dinosaur, considering we don’t lay eggs, but a f*ckin’ skinnie? Some kids in my neighborhood convinced me that skinnies lay eggs when I was a child, and I believed ‘em. It’d suit their kind. They certainly got the mental capacity of birds, so it’d just make sense. Of course, I know he uses the nickname because his actual name is Egbert. f*ckin’ ridiculous… and now he’s sitting in this conference room.

… Why is he sitting in this conference room? I turn my eyes to Charles, wordlessly asking the question with my disgusted look.

He answers it. “Egbert is going to be joining the two of you today for dues collection in northeastern Brachlyn. Make sure you don’t let McIntyre push off payment again, either. He’s a month behind as–”

I cut him off. “Excuse me, Mr. Rossi. But… why is this skinnie joining us?”

Eggsy lowers his eyes, quaking feverishly with sweat pouring from his sickening troglodyte brow. Charles, on the other hand, merely co*cks his head. “Because I said so. Egbert is working his way up the organization and has proven himself very loyal. You’ll be… training him today.”

I can’t help but clench my fists. How dare you. How dare you tell me to take this f*cking skinnie with us on our dues pick-ups. The f*cking nerve of…

… Suddenly, a thought occurs to me. He just said… “training”. As in, Eggsy is learning this job. Maybe… they’re expecting a vacancy in the position soon. Hell, I’ve been busting my ass long enough, I deserve something bigger than running f*cking errands. Besides… how many times have I said that even a monkey could do this f*ckin’ job? And now I’m being asked to train a monkey how to do it.

My fingers uncurl and I take a slow, steadying breath. I still ain’t happy about this arrangement, but… if it means I’ll be training my replacement, so be it. My eyes shift back over to Eggsy. He still doesn’t meet my gaze, a common supplication tactic for his cowardly kind. Glancing back at Charles, I nod. “Not a problem, boss.”

Charles immediately grins. “Excellent. Well, good luck with the rounds. Give me a phone call when you’re at the end of your route, I’ll let you know where you can drop everything off.”

I turn to the door, meeting Marty’s eyes as I do so. He glances at me with concern; he’s worked with me for a couple years now, and knows all too well my disdain for humans. He’s got a softer heart than me, which means he isn’t the one they ask to do heavy work like they do me. He knows what gets done sometimes, but he keeps his hands clean of it. Unfortunately, that softer heart means he’s a bit more susceptible to the manipulation of these lower species.

As I exit the room and start heading back toward my car, I hear the scramble of Eggsy darting behind us, keeping several feet away as we head back out to the parking garage. He holds a hand on his cap, preventing it from flying off his head since he has to hustle to keep up with our longer strides. Yet another evolutionary pratfall that proves his kind should still be serving us. In his other hand, a black briefcase swings back and forth with his gait.

Arriving next to my Cadillac, I spin around to face Eggsy. He screeches to a halt, stepping back a pace as to not be too close, and immediately averts his eyes. Marty stands on the other side of my vehicle, nervously glancing at the two of us from above the passenger door. I extend my pointer finger at Eggsy and speak slowly and deliberately. I’ve found this tactic in combination with using small, uncomplicated words to be the best way to get your point across when dealing with a skinnie.

“Listen up and listen well, skinnie. You will be doing what we tell you to do today. You will keep your mouth shut unless we speak to you. You will listen, and you will hopefully learn a thing or two. You got that?”

He stares up at me, his knees practically knocking together. He mutters a stumbling reply. ”Y–y–yes, sir, Mr. Signorelli, s–sir!”

I shoot him a menacing look. “And if you put one scratch on my car, I will f*ckin’ behead you.”

He gulps and frantically nods in acknowledgement, nearly setting his cap loose from its tenuous hold atop his greasy, disgusting hair. With a final puff of air from my nostrils, I gesture with my head for him to get into the back seat.

I’m gonna have to steam clean the whole car after this.

We depart the parking garage that’s partially buried under the office toward the first stop on our route. We follow a standard schedule as it gets to the end of the month, taking care of dues collection by neighborhood, a few blocks at a time. Each stop can take anywhere from a couple minutes to a half hour, depending on how chatty the owner of each establishment happens to be. Sometimes that’s small talk, and sometimes that’s us listening to excuses about how they came up short this month or how their guys are moaning about switching to another labor union. During the day, I just listen. I don’t thump skulls or break bones. That’s left for the higher-ups to decide on before anything of that magnitude goes down. After all, we’re the face of the Herdsters. Can’t be going around plugging guys in broad daylight just because they missed a few months of dues.

Today, we’ve got about twenty stops to make. It shouldn’t take us longer than the business day, but we’ll have to do a little driving. We’ve got a lot of partners in Brachlyn, and they’re a bit spread out. Our first stop is a liquor store that specializes in fancy wines. “The Vineyard”, it’s called. I like stopping here first because the owner’s a nice fella, never gives us trouble, and always breaks out a bottle to send Marty and I away with a glass of delicious, top quality wine in our stomachs. Not much better way to start a day than that, I think.

As we pull up to the well-dressed building tucked between a few other storefronts facing the road, I suddenly remember the quivering lump of skin in the backseat. I put the car in park and rotate as far as I can to bring Eggsy into view. He sits in the center of the backseat, hands tucked between his knees, with his black briefcase cradled between his arms and his stomach. He jolts away from me as I turn toward him, perhaps anticipating the back of my hand. As fun as it’d be to rough him up, I should at least try to keep things professional.

“You’re staying in the car. Marty and I will be back in a few minutes. Don’t touch anything.”

Eggsy seems to open his mouth to protest, but quickly closes it. Smart move. Instead, he sheepishly nods before withdrawing his handkerchief and wiping some of the ceaseless moisture from his brow. I know it’s a hot day today, but Raptor Christ he’s gonna really sick up my backseat with his everflowing sweat.

I can’t dwell on it. I’ll just get angrier the more I think about it. Instead, I shut off the car and hoist myself out of the driver’s seat to the pavement below me. Marty follows suit, craning his neck around to give me a concerned look. I know the look. He’s gonna grouse at me. As we make our way to the front door of the wine shop, he makes good on my supposition. “... Pierce, you sure we shouldn’t be bringing him in with us?”

I roll my eyes. “Yes, I’m sure. It’s bad enough he’s here at all, but I’m tolerating it because it might mean I’m not gonna be at this menial busywork for much longer.”

Marty furrows his brow for a moment before realization sets in. He knows I’m not thrilled about performing this tedium; he and I have had plenty of time to chat during the course of our workdays together. He glances over his shoulder at the car. “You think they’re fixing up Eggsy to take your place?”

“Charles did say we’re ‘training’ him. What else would that mean?”

“Well… if that is the case, then he really should be coming in with us, shouldn’t he? He’ll have to learn how to handle the clientele when they… ya know… try to get one over on us.”

I chuckle. “And you think that petrified weasel of a skinnie is gonna be able to manage our almost entirely dinosaur patronage? f*ckin’ doubt that. You’d better harden up a bit, Marty. I think you’ll be the new smiling muscle for these transactions moving forward.”

Marty gives a nervous chuckle in reply. He’s not a weakling by any means; bastard’s got a right hook that’ll ring your bell for a week. That said, he tries to be diplomatic past the point when diplomacy should have ended. We don’t rough people up during the day, but we do sometimes have to harshly remind them where they stand.

Pushing open the door of The Vineyard, we are immediately greeted by the beaming smile of Marcel Sauveterre, a tyrannosaurus fella with an accent nearly as incomprehensible as his last name. He tried guiding me through pronouncing it once. I gave up after about twelve attempts. However, his pleasant demeanor more than makes up for the difficulty I sometimes have understanding him.

He instantly uncorks a bottle as we enter. “Bienvenue, mes amis! It is another journée chaude, no?”

I return his smile but scratch my head in the process. Journey what now? Marty seemed to pick up on the context. “You can say that again, Marcel. I’m already down a pound and a half just by sweatin’!”

Marcel lets out a hearty laugh as he pours three glasses of the freshly uncorked wine. He joins us in our morning taste, rattling off the name of a village somewhere on the other side of the world that I’ve never been to and will never go to. Damn tasty wine, though. I might not appreciate the history or craftsmanship behind it, but I sure as hell know a good taste when it hits my tongue.

As he makes a little more partially incomprehensible small talk with us, Marcel slides a white envelope across the counter. Marty gives a nod as he plucks the dues from the counter. Another minute later, we finish our drinks and bid the wine salesman a pleasant day.

Back at the car, I notice Eggsy in the same place, briefcase in the same position, with his eyes focused on nothing in particular. Half the time I don’t even think thoughts go through the thick skulls of those apes, and moments like this prove my theory. As I open the driver’s side door, however, his head jerks in my direction. He decides to speak up. “D–did everything g–go well?”

I don’t say anything, but Marty, ever the polite one, answers. “Yep. This place is run by a fella named Marcel. Real nice guy, but he’s got a heavy accent. Always on time with his dues, so it’s a pleasant first stop.”

Eggsy smiles at Marty, clearly happy that he’s being treated as less of a burden by him than by me. Nothing I can do about it; I’ve discussed the topic at great length with Marty in the past, but he seems convinced that skinnies “aren’t all bad”. Fool thoughts like that will get you shot in the back of the head someday.

As I ignite the engine and start moving us toward our next few stops, Marty glances down at the briefcase that the skinnie in my backseat is clutching. He looks down at the envelope in his hands, then back at the case. “... Hey, Eggsy, why don’t you hand that up here?”

Eggsy blinks. Before he can respond, I make an inquiry. “Marty, what on God’s green earth would you want that skinnie’s wretched luggage for?”

Marty shrugs. “I’m guessing he brought it to help carry the dues. Hell, I been saying we should bring one, but we always just stuff everything in your glove box. By the end of the day there’s six envelopes that can’t fit in there.” He looks toward Eggsy again. “That is why you brought it, isn’t it?”

Eggsy excitedly nods. “Y–yeah! Yeah! I figured, ya know, we could use somethin’ to carry the dues. I figured you guys woulda had one, but, ya know, just in case, I could help out and show that I’m ready to–”

I cut him off. “For f*ck’s sake. Give Marty the f*ckin’ case already. I’m gettin’ a headache listening to you yap.”

Eggsy casts his eyes downward again before holding the briefcase out to Marty. My dinosaur cohort accepts it, flicks open its clasp and opens it up in his lap. The gaudy green felt lining of its interior informs me of two things: one, the case is indeed empty, and two, Eggsy has f*ckin’ terrible taste in accessories.

Marty drops the envelope into the case, clicks it shut and attempts to tuck it into the floor by his leg. This takes some effort on his part; for as roomy as my car is, we are both large dinosaurs who have to make some sacrifices with comfort when it comes to travel. One of those sacrifices is having very little extra space when transporting ourselves via means besides our own two legs. He seems to find a spot for the case, though he wears a bit of a sour expression, possibly due to being jabbed in the leg by one of its corners.

His inconvenience doesn’t last for very long since our next few stops are only about a minute away. The following several hours go by with little issue. I still don’t allow Eggsy to join us, demanding that he wait in the car while me, Marty and Eggsy’s briefcase do the rounds. If I’m gonna be training this guy, it’ll be my way, and I am not going to tolerate walking into these establishments with a skinnie in tow. I’ve got some goddamn pride.

Around 12:30, we pull up to another stop on our list. I slam my car door a little more fiercely than I meant to, immediately regretting the action as I hear glass loudly rattling inside of it. It’s hot enough to have the windows rolled down, and it would have been a real f*cking mess if I just shattered my window inside of the door. Thankfully, I think I dodged a disaster. Not thankfully, I’m still in a rotten mood.

The place we just came from is one of the few “businesses” we service that’s run by a skinnie. Some f*ckin’ produce stand down the street. Place reeks of rotten fruit and disgusting flesh bags. It makes my skin crawl to go in there, but they pay up every month so we gotta collect.

That is, they usually pay up every month. This time, the owner was sniveling and mewling about coming up short. Begged us for some leniency. We don’t rough people up during the working day, but I never wanted to backhand a piece of trash skinnie more in my life. Instead… I was professional about it.

I’ll wait for the order from upstairs to take care of the trash.

Using the fantasy of executing that little sh*t to cheer me up a bit, I head around to the back entrance of Sal’s Butcher and Grocery. I know where Sal’s office is, having been here a handful of times already, and it’s easier to just use the back door. Less ornery dames slapping the cabbage out of each other’s hands to deal with. Plus, Sal is a pretty stand-up guy. It’s another one of the easier stops of the day.

At the steps leading up to the door stationed next to the loading dock, I tell Marty to wait for me. He does so, briefcase in hand as he withdraws his pack of smokes. He knows I don’t like him smoking in my car, so he uses these opportunities to get his nicotine fix. I jog up the small set of stairs and throw open the door–

A skinnie in overalls and glasses nearly as thick as Eggsy’s stumbles backward from the swinging metal barrier. Whether he was about to leave or was just standing there like the braindead mongrel he is… well, that’s anyone’s guess. Glancing around, I see several more skinnies staring up at me, jaws slacked and eyes devoid of thought. Warehouse workers. Physical labor is about the best thing they’re suited for. Shame we have to pay them now.

I stride across the internal side of the loading dock toward Sal’s office, leaning my head to peer through its large glass windows and hopefully flag down the parasaurolophus so I can collect his dues and be on my way. However, I do not see him. Instead, yet another skinnie stands near the office, gazing up at me like a toddler mesmerized by a balloon salesman.

Apparently I have to interact with these troglodytes. I speak slowly and with authority. “Where’s Sal Fontana?”

The skinnie nervously clears his throat. Not that it does him much good as he begins instantly stumbling over his words. “H–he’s not here. C–can I help you with–”

In two steps I’m across the space, staring down at the lump of worthless skin in front of me. I grit my teeth as he stumbles backward. “Can you go get him for me?”

“H–he’s n–not in the s–store. A–are you–”

I’m surprised the beast can even form sentences. Feeling the sickening disdain spreading across my face, I lower myself closer to the skinnie and address him as I would a preschooler. “I am here for his dues. And you’re telling me he’s not here?”

He is petrified beyond words for a moment, lowering his eyes in pacifism. They come to rest on the Herdsters pin on my jacket before widening. His eyes shoot back up to meet mine again. “I c–can get that for you!”

He can… what? Before I can process his rambling, he darts into Sal’s office and pulls open a drawer of Sal’s desk. I feel my plates stand on end as I stride over to the door. If this skinnie draws iron on me, he’ll be losing that gunfight in a sore way. However, he doesn’t lift a pistol from the drawer; rather, he fishes out an envelope with the word “Dues” scrawled across its front.

“Mr. F–Fontana asked me to g–give this to you! Here!” He holds his hand containing the envelope in my direction, his arm quaking slightly. I will admit, I’m a bit shocked by the development. Did Sal really entrust a skinnie, of all people, to handle this task for him? Wouldn’t he be worried about the dishonest f*ck running off with the money, or, more likely, failing to remember where it was? The f*ckin’ things can’t even tie their shoes most days, it seems.

I just don’t understand other dinosaurs sometimes. Begrudgingly, I snatch the envelope from his hand, taking a quick glance inside of it to ensure it’s full of the owed money and not folded up tissue paper. The cash is all there. Looking back up toward the human, his messy and unkempt brown hair doing little to contain the sweat atop his head or shield his nauseatingly reddened cheeks, I jab a stern finger in his direction.

“You tell Sal that the next time we come by to collect, it’s him here, not some skinnie f*ck.”

He rapidly looks downward, adequately intimidated. “Y–yes, sir! S–sorry, sir!”

I let out an audible grumble. While I’m not pleased I had to deal with even more skinnies… at least these ones weren’t completely retarded. My business here concluded, I turn and head back to the door. As I throw it open and step outside, Marty’s head cranes around to me. He drops his cigarette to the ground and stomps it out. “Everything go okay in there?”

I hand him the envelope which he stuffs into the briefcase as we both make our way back toward the car. “If I never have to see another skinnie f*ck in my life, it’ll be too soon.” Of course, Raptor Jesus is fickle and immediately blesses me with the sight of Eggsy, still seated in the backseat of the car, just as sweaty and nervous as ever.

But… something makes me pause. Something about the encounter I just had. I climb behind the steering wheel again and start the engine, mulling over the skinnie in Sal’s and how quickly he fetched that envelope. The fact that Sal, someone I know to be a pretty reasonable guy despite employing those apes, actually trusted one of ‘em enough to hand off his dues. And the skinnie actually did it.

I glance in my rearview mirror at Eggsy. He peers out the window, watching the cars go by in the other direction. Though it looks to me like his head is empty of thoughts… he is working his way up in the Herdsters. Enough for Charles to be giving the little sh*t a legitimate shot at some work that requires a lot of trust.

Huh… maybe…

… Nah, I’m not gonna think about it too hard.

The rest of the day goes by without a hitch. At some point in the afternoon Marty finally gets fed up with trying to find a compromise between the sharp edges of the briefcase and his thighs, so he tosses the case in the empty space of the backseat next to Eggsy. At first I glare daggers at him, wordlessly emphasizing that I wouldn’t trust a skinnie with a f*ckin’ nickel, but Eggsy doesn’t do anything with the case. He barely even acknowledges it, going back to looking out the window or occasionally making small talk with Marty.

That twinge in the back of my head again.

… Maybe I am being too hard on the little f*cker. He’s been pretty kosher all day, despite the usual nervous behavior and profuse sweating. He’s done what I told him, and he hasn’t put a toe out of line. He even waited in the car while Marty and I got lunch, despite Marty inviting him. Said he wasn’t hungry. When we came back, I’d have expected him to have wandered out of the car, milling about and fanning himself off with his cap, but he was right where we left him, patiently waiting.

Hmm. Well, granted, I ain’t gonna change my perception on skinnies due to the good behavior of one. But… Eggsy might not be such a waste of space as the rest of ‘em.

As the small hand on my wrist watch nears the 5, I park the car about fifty feet away from a payphone. Closest spot I could find. The briefcase, laying on the seat next to Eggsy, is packed full of almost two dozen envelopes stuffed with cash. It was a long day with a few minor hiccups, but nothing that needed any drastic action. All that’s left is to give Charles a call to let him know we’re done, get our meetup location and make our deposit.

Lifting the handset from its cradle, I slide a dime into the slot next to it before punching in the familiar numbers for the Herdsters office. Once connected to the receptionist, they transfer me to Charles’s desk. He answers as punctually as he always does: exactly two rings, then a click followed by his voice.

“Charles Rossi speaking.”

“Hey, Charles. It’s Pierce. We’re all done for the day.”

The sound of him passing his own handset from one hand to the other is followed by his response. “Excellent. How did it go?”

I shrug unconsciously, knowing the gesture doesn’t communicate itself through the phone lines. “Pretty good, all things considered. Did have a problem with the produce stand on 43rd. Owner thinks they don’t have to pay on time.”

Silence for a moment as I hear Charles rustling some papers. “Hm. Seems they’ve got a pretty good payment record. When did they say they can settle up?”

“He said next week, but I ain’t–”

“We’ll give them a week. No reason to break eggs if they haven’t gone rotten yet.” I let out an irritated huff a little too loudly. “What was that?”

“... Nothin’, sir. No problem.”

“Very good. Meet me at Santiago’s Bar in a half hour. After that, you’ll be all done for the day.” He pauses. “Of course, you’d be welcome to stay for a few drinks.”

I chuckle. “Not tonight, sir. Wife is expecting me home for supper. Speaking of, I need to give her a call real quick before I head over to Santiago’s. I’ll see you in a bit, Mr. Rossi.”

“Very good, Pierce. See you soon.”

I place the handset back on its metal holster, hearing the telltale sound of my dime settling in with all the others. Waiting a moment, I lift the receiver again, deposit another coin, and tap the only numbers more familiar to me than those of my office.

“... Hello?”

“Hey there, beautiful.”

She giggles. “Well, if it isn’t my darling husband. How was your day?”

“Long, but almost done. I’ll be on my way home after making a quick stop.”

“Mmhmm. And how many drinks will this quick stop involve?”

“Hey! I told you I’d be home for supper, so I’m gonna be home for supper! I even told my boss ‘no’ when he mentioned the prospect of drinks.”

“Oh, my! And you’re trying to move up in the business? I don’t think you’ll go anywhere if you turn down Charles Rossi when he’s offering to socialize with you.”

This woman. I sigh, rotating in the phone booth. “You know, Bianca, here I thought I was being a good husband and prioritizing my wife’s delicious supper over… over…” I trail off.

After a moment, Bianca notices. “... Pierce? Are you still there?”

I narrow my eyes, peering back toward my car. It remains parked where it was, with Marty lazily resting his chin on his hand, eyes half closed. But…

… The back seat is empty.

… Where is Eggsy?

… Where the f*ck is Eggsy?!

I instantly drop the phone, its metal cord emitting a sharp snapping sound as it hits the bottom of its reach, momentum sending the device clattering against the glass walls surrounding me. I only barely hear the voice of my wife as I slam open the door of the booth, nearly ripping it off its hinges as I barrel down the street toward my car.

I arrive in only a few seconds, roaring as I come to a stop. “Marty! Where the f*ck is Eggsy?!”

Marty only partially opens his eyes before addressing me through the rolled down windows. “He said he was hungry. Said there was a hot dog stand behind us he wanted to hit.”

My head snaps left and right, looking for any hot dog stalls in sight. There are none. Already knowing what I’m about to not see resting in my backseat, I pull my head through the open rear window.

I bellow. “THE f*ckIN’ BRIEFCASE IS GONE! HE f*ckIN’ TOOK IT!!”

Only now do Marty’s eyes snap open. His head instantly whips around, scanning every part of the backseat, including the floor, before throwing open the passenger door and stumbling out of the vehicle. “Holy sh*t. HOLY sh*t! Oh my God, what the f*ck?!”

As much as I want to box this absolute idiot’s ears, there’s no time. We have to find that f*cking lying piece of sh*t skinnie, and now. I charge down the street in the direction our car does not face, knowing Eggsy would have had to go this direction to slip away without me noticing him waltz past the phone booth, tens of thousands of dollars that belong to the Herdsters swaying merrily in his deceptive little hand.

I crane my head around, scanning every place I can for any sign of the little sh*t. Marty follows close behind, worthless apologies tumbling from his lips. He can apologize to me after we wring this puke’s neck and recover our money. I can’t f*ckin’ believe it. Just when I was thinking even one skinnie might not be that bad, they prove my disdain right yet again.

I shove past two dinosaurs walking the opposite direction. They complain, but I don’t stick around to hear exactly what rude words they spew at me. Bigger fish to fry. Just as I pass by an alleyway, frantically surveying the other side of the street for the freakishly thick glasses and pinstripe cap, Marty shouts at me. “PIERCE! The alley! There’s the case!”

I screech to a halt, the heels of my shoes leaving black streaks on the paved sidewalk beneath me. Spinning around, I dart into the alley that Marty’s long neck is already surveying. Sure enough, a black briefcase with nauseating green felt lining lies discarded on the ground, its contents and its owner nowhere to be seen. I only spend a second scanning the concrete for any evidence of the envelopes before throwing myself toward the other end of the alley. It bends, which means it might–

I turn the corner, spotting the back of a sweat-drenched skinnie in the alley opposite the street. Not a second later, a large truck pulls to a stop between us, blocking my view. I barrel out of the alley and dart around the back of the truck, not bothering to look both ways. My blood’s too boiled for a hit by a vehicle to do anything but piss me off more. I make it to the other side and rush into the alley.

At that moment, Eggsy spins around and collides with me, letting out a cowardly shriek as he does so. My hands instantly close around his head and I toss him like a ragdoll into the brick wall next to us. The sickening slap of his head hitting brick brings his screaming to a rapid stop. He probably ain’t dead yet, but his bell is definitely rung.

I shout at the crumpled heap of worthless skin in front of me. “Where’s the f*ckin’ money, Eggsy?!”

He doesn’t reply, trying to pull himself off the ground. His legs wobble underneath him and he falls back to his knees again. Not that escape is an option anymore; Marty stands at the entrance of the alley we entered from, panting due to being a bit out of shape and because of his smoking habit. I feel fit as a fiddle, full of adrenaline and ready to break this f*ckin’ skinnie’s neck.

I repeat my question, slower and more clearly so that his addled mind can process my words. “Where is the money, you skinnie piece of sh*t?”

Eggsy pulls himself from his daze and onto his feet, glaring up at me with newfound hatred in his eyes. Gone is the nervous exterior; either it was all a ruse, or he’s come to accept his fate. “I don’t have it, you meteor dodging f*ckwit. It ain’t here. It’s gone.”

I stare down at him for a moment before roughly grabbing his coat, throwing it open and rapidly patting him down. If there are any envelopes stuffed into his pants, I’ll be ripping more than just the money away from his groin. He slaps at me, but it is a fruitless gesture. I am the stronger race; he has no hope in this encounter.

Standing up straight again and still empty handed of the money, I move a rung up the ladder of “how f*cking serious I am right now”. I draw the .357 from my shoulder holster and point it directly at Eggsy’s heart. He flinches in response, but still stands defiant against me. Marty, on the other hand, immediately whips his head around, making sure no bystanders observe the unfolding scene before scolding me in a whisper. “Pierce, are you nuts? Put that away, we need to bring him back in. Charles will know what to do!”

I coolly repeat my question a third time. “The money, Eggsy. Where did you hide it?”

Eggsy glares at me, a strange combination of foolhardy bravery and undeserved confidence in his eyes. “You’re not gonna shoot me in public, you club-toed sack of scales. How am I gonna show you where it’s at if I’m dead?”

I glance around the alleyway. It’s an absolute ratnest paradise, packed with trash and filth. Fitting place for a skinnie to die, if you ask me. I look back at Eggsy and shrug. “It’ll take a while, but we’ll find it. I don’t think your services will be needed.”

Marty’s eyes widen and he begins to speak. “Pierce, we need to–”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. The only sound any of us hear for a moment is that of the tinnitus ringing in our ears. Eggsy’s eyes widen in surprise. The adrenaline certainly coursing through his body prevents him from feeling the lead that just passed through his torso and embedded itself in the brick wall behind him. He glances down at the slowly spreading red spot on his white dress shirt before looking back up at me in disbelief.

One isn’t enough for this skinnie f*ck. So I release another from the gun’s chamber. Then three more in rapid succession, each bullet pushing him further backward until he collides with the wall and slides downward. He keeps staring up at me, unable to speak through the blood that begins seeping from his mouth but communicating his intense hatred of me all the same. His pained expression conveys his absolute shock at his bluff being called by the smoking end of my snub-nosed companion. His quivering eyes make known the feeling of utter betrayal he feels in this moment.

The feeling is mutual.

A second or two pass before I can hear Marty’s voice past the ringing in my ears. “PIERCE! What the f*ck did you do?! We have to go! NOW!!”

I calmly turn his direction, a weird sort of smile resting on my lips. And here I thought it was gonna be a bad day. Nothing quite like executing a skinnie to turn a frown upside down, I suppose. But… Marty is right. The panicked look in his eyes communicates the urgency of our situation, and we both charge across the street and into the adjacent alley in the direction of my car.

A few bystanders looked our way, but nobody pointed or screamed. Nobody called our names after us. It was another day in Old York for them. Someone got greased in an alley, someone who probably deserved it or maybe didn’t. The cops would show up soon, putting up their tape and waving people along, giving themselves something to do. The ambulance would arrive, identify that the skinnie is, in fact, dead, and stuff him in a black bag to be carted to some furnace that Eggsy would be tossed into. Burned and sent to hell… a fitting end for a cowardly traitor like him.

We throw ourselves into my car; my foot’s on the gas before the engine even finishes spinning up. Not a moment too soon, either, as the approaching sirens herald the arrival of those boys in blue. Once again out of breath, Marty stammers. “Raptor Jesus f*ck, Pierce. You–you f*ckin’ killed him. You shot him in broad daylight. Are you out of your f*ckin’ mind?!”

I shrug. “He betrayed us. Stole Herdster money. He got what was comin’ to him.”

Both Marty’s eyes and his tone reveal the anger boiling inside of him. “That wasn’t your call to make and you know it. We should have dragged him back to the car and taken him to Charles.”

I wave a hand in his direction. “Ahh, pomp and circ*mstance. You know Eggsy was gonna end up on the wet side of a pier for this stunt, even if he handed the money back to us.”

Marty’s tone is even more serious. “That wasn’t your call to make.” I glance at him, not taking my eyes off the road for too long. I know he’s got a softer heart than me, but I honestly can’t tell why he’s making such a big stink of this. He ain’t the one that pulled the trigger, I am.

“Well… what’s done is done. We’ll go to Charles and let him know what happened. I’m sure he’ll understand.”

Marty shakes his head at me in disbelief before slumping back in his chair and crossing his arms. He doesn’t speak to me again, but he knows we have a new stop that we have to make on the way now.

I pull the car up to the small iron bridge that connects part of Stegen Island to one of its several adjoined man-made “islands”, a platform littered with cranes and industrial equipment designed for loading and unloading cargo ships. This particular dock doesn’t see much use anymore as it’s been outclassed by several other larger and more modernized operations. Rather than tear this one apart, it’s been mostly abandoned save for the occasional need to load a ship that couldn’t fit into the other overcrowded bays.

I’m not here to load, however. I’m here to unload. Stepping up to the edge of the bridge, I glance around, making sure no kids on bicycles or nosy old women out for an evening stroll are looking my way. Seeing that the coast is clear, I toss my .357 revolver into the bay. Twenty feet below, a small kerplunk sound is followed by the metal sinking to the bottom of the sea, joining what is almost certainly several hundred of its retired brothers. I’ve made my fair share of contributions here, but I’m not the only fella who likes to send spent pieces to the pasture off of this particular bridge.

Looking up toward the ocean, the setting sun at my back paints the water in a majestic tapestry of orange and blue. I breathe deeply through my nostrils, the scent of salt and brine adding a sense of nostalgia to the moment. The sound of the waves lapping at the steel beams below me whisper words I do not understand, but they speak to me all the same.

I wonder what Bianca is making for dinner tonight.

Chapter 4: Samuel

Chapter Text

“Holy f*ckin’ sh*t, was that gunshots?!” I whip around, peering cautiously in the direction of the sequence of loud pops that just rung out. The primal part of my brain causes me to hunch over slightly, ready to tear off in the opposite direction the moment I see a gun come into view. I ain’t about to f*ck around with-

A clatter startles me a second time and I spin to face the sudden racket. The velociraptor lady’s grocery bag is strewn on the ground, a package of hamburger buns bouncing a few inches away. I think her tail swept em’ off the bench, and now she’s on her feet and darting… towards the gunshots?!

Every rational part of me tells me to let this broad charge headfirst to her suicide all by herself. Every iota of my survival instinct screams at me to put as much distance between myself and the nearby danger that’s made itself known as humanly possible. But… for some reason, I don’t. Instead, my legs carry me in the same direction as this blue-tinted dinosaur woman.

Despite my body refusing to obey my primal drive to protect my own life, my throat manages to vocalize my disagreement towards the raptor. “Are you f*ckin’ crazy, lady?! Usually you go in the opposite direction of gunshots!”

She continues charging forward. “I’m a cop!”

“... Holy sh*t, really?! Well, then, go get the bastard!” I, uh… well, I didn’t realize this lady was a cop. She’s in pretty normal work attire, but… maybe that’s her “after shift” change of clothes? Or before shift, even? I don’t know a thing about this woman but… hell, hopefully she’ll know how to defuse this situation.

She turns her head towards me as I run after her. “This is dangerous, you shouldn’t be-”

My sudden stop causes her to pause and face forward again. We’ve arrived at the scene of the shooting, and… it’s a human. A human fella got shot. He sits propped against the brick wall of the alleyway across from us, clutching his chest and trying to prevent as much blood from leaking out of his torso as he can. He’s already as white as a ghost, and tries gurgling something at us but can’t form the words past the fluid clogging his throat.

The raptor next to me immediately darts further down the turn in the alley, shouting at me as she goes. “Get him help! I’m going after the suspect!”

I try to acknowledge her orders, but nothing comes out. Much like this poor guy, I find myself unable to form a sentence. Instead I slowly step towards him, frantically scanning my brain for any sort of help I can offer. Do I apply pressure? Do I make a tourniquet? Do I get this guy a hot dog and a beer so he can enjoy something before he f*ckin’ dies? I don’t know what to do. I glance around, but nobody else is here. Nobody else investigated the gunshots. Nobody is calling for help.

It’s just me… and this dying stranger. I can only stare down at him in disbelief and shock. I feel awful for being unable to help him in some way, but… I’m just an average guy. I’m not a doctor, a combat medic or a priest. I don’t have any morphine to give him or absolution to offer him. All I can do is watch him struggle to cling to the last few moments of life he’s got left.

With what I’m sure is immeasurable difficulty, the man limply waves me closer. I oblige his request, stepping towards him and kneeling down next to his resting place, my leg coming dangerously close to the pool of blood collecting underneath his legs. He doesn’t try speaking, already realizing the futility of his attempts. Instead, he raises his hand and points a single finger towards a small crevice in the alleyway. It’s an odd junction between two buildings, not quite an alley of its own due to abruptly ending in the supporting wall of one of the adjacent structures, and only receding into the edge of the alley by about six feet. Partially split open garbage bags are packed into the strange divet, their contents strewn and obliterated by weather and wildlife.

I look back to him, perplexed by his gesture, but he adamantly points towards the space, his quaking finger calling out… not the trash in the alcove, but… something else.

An odd slurry of both shock and curiosity causes my legs to carry me towards the grotto. I know I should be running for help, or cradling this man while he certainly breathes his last, but the look of hopeless sincerity in his eyes forces me to follow his guidance. Traveling about thirty feet down the alley to the crevice, I peer deeper into it. If it’s something buried in this trash heap, I’ll be here for a while trying to find whatever it is, but…

I cautiously climb over the garbage, my legs sinking into God knows what beneath me, wrapped within decayed plastic bags. The smell is musty and ancient, but thankfully nothing explodes and coats my clothes with rotten filth. I have to turn sideways to squeeze into the opening; a larger form would have zero chance of fitting into this claustrophobia made manifest. I turn once more to look towards my guide; he still clings to life, continuing to point, nodding encouragement in my direction.

Turning back, I shuffle another few feet into the passage. I feel movement by my work boots, almost certainly rats making a break for it. Thank God I ain’t squeamish about the little pests. I do my best to scan the area for anything that would be so important to this guy that he’d ask me to retrieve it for him, or maybe he’s-

A particular brick set into the wall catches my attention. From a distance, nothing about it seemed peculiar, but now that I’m only a few inches away from it…

I reach out and poke at it. It doesn’t budge. I slide my fingers into the tiny spaces on either side of the stone and try pulling it…

Ah. That did it. The brick slides loose, revealing a small opening. Inside is a pile of envelopes, some white and some brown, hastily jammed into the hiding spot. Many are bent and some have started coming open. I reach into the hole in the wall, drawing out one in particular near the front of the pile that caught my attention.

On the face of the envelope rests a single word, scrawled in thick, black lines. The handwriting is unmistakably that of my boss, Sal Fontana.

“Dues”.

It takes a moment for me to register that my mouth hangs slack open as I stare at the word. I slowly lift my eyes to look at the roughly two dozen other envelopes, all similarly stuffed with assorted bills. My hand quakes as I pull open the paper flap and peer inside. Twenties and fifties. Probably close to a hundred bills. My brow furrows as I do some quick math… this has gotta be… close to two thousand bucks, if not more. And there’s so many more envelopes, equally stuffed with-

The sound of an approaching siren snaps me out of the moment. My head whips towards the alley, then back at the stash. In a panic, I cram the envelope back into the hole and replace the brick, careful to set it as neatly flush against the wall as it was before. I scramble out of the trash pile, stumbling a bit as a bag catches around my ankle. I kick some of the strewn garbage back into the alcove after I exit, trying to make it look less apparent that someone was rooting around in there. Stepping back and staring at the literal trove I was just shown, I can’t help but whistle.

“Holy sh*t, man. I don’t know if you put that there or if you found a f*ckin’ treasure map, but that is some serious…”

I turn back to the man as I speak. He no longer holds his finger pointing towards a stockpile of more money than I’ve ever seen before in my life. Instead, his arm rests on the ground, partially helping to prop his lifeless torso in its seated final pose. The eyes that only moments ago desperately clung to the spark of his soul now stare purposelessly at the concrete below him.

I find myself unable to move. All I can do is stand and stare. As the reality of what I’m looking at sets in, a place deep in my stomach tries to churn, insisting that I vomit. The fact that I skipped lunch turns the reaction into nothing more than a dry heave, but I feel the color drain from my skin all the same.

As I straighten up from my doubled over position and wipe nothing but a little drool from my chin, I force myself to look at the dead man again. Who was this guy? What was his name? What did he do to deserve getting shot in the middle of the day?

… Did it have something to do with that money? It… had to have, right?

I absent-mindedly stare at the hiding spot as I feel a hand come to rest on my shoulder. I feel like I should be on high f*ckin’ alert right now, but I barely even flinch. I turn to acknowledge who it is… the raptor lady again. She seems to be favoring one leg, and her pretty dress is all sorts of f*cked up now. Whether she took a nasty tumble or got in a fist fight with a golem, she looks worse for wear. She stares down at the body, a sort of sad look in her eyes. She did say she’s a cop, so she’s probably seen a body before. In this city, unless she just started yesterday, there’s no way she hasn’t.

The sirens have arrived, joined by the sounds of car doors being thrown open and orders being barked. The woman squeezes my shoulder lightly before speaking. “The cops are here. They’re gonna ask you a bunch of questions, but don’t panic, alright?” Christ. I’m standing over a dead body with a cop next to me. I hope that’s enough of an alibi for them to not shoot me to death right here and now.

Her eyes meet mine, their yellow hue glistening in the traces of light that make their way past the buildings surrounding us. For some reason… in those eyes, I’m able to find a little bit of calmness. She gives me a gentle smile. “I’m Aubrey Carter. I never got your name, fellow jazz enthusiast.”

I do my best to return her gesture. “... Samuel. Samuel Lawson.”

Before she can say another word, the wind is knocked out of me as a f*ckin’ freight train slams into me and crushes me into the concrete below. A chorus of shouts for me to “get on the ground” and “stop resisting” join the angels that sing sweetly within my thoroughly rung bell. Somewhere through the thick of it all, I hear the protestations of…

Aubrey. She said her name was Aubrey.

… That’s a really pretty name. I like it.

A pair of greenish hands roughly pulls me up to my feet, only partially helping to stabilize the spinning world around me. The speed lever on the phonograph in my head slowly ratchets up, the noise around me becoming clearer and more understandable as my brain stops sliding around in my skull.

“- just said, you f*ckin’ knuckleheads! He was with me! He ain’t a suspect!” Aubrey seems pissed. That’s nice of her. I attempt to focus on her but there’s about three or four half-transparent Aubreys sorta rotating around one another. I think I need to sit down.

I try to bring my hands up to wipe some of the stars away from my eyes, but they don’t budge from behind my back. It takes a moment to process the metal restraints fastening my wrists together and the absolute vice grip of fingers and claws that hold my arm in place.

The voice attached to the claws speaks gruffly towards Aubrey. “You’re tellin’ me this skinnie was just standin’ around and didn’t have nothin’ to do with another skinnie gettin’ shot in an alleyway?”

Aubrey sounds completely incensed now. “First off, can the sh*t with callin’ him that word. He’s an innocent bystander that just saw another human die. Second, yes, I am sayin’ that. He was talkin’ to me at the bus stop and we both heard the gunshots. I almost caught up to the shoo-” She cuts herself off, hesitating before finishing her sentence more quietly than she began it. “... the suspect.”

A moment of silence, then… laughter. Uproarious laughter from the cop holding my arm as well as the other two who are standing nearby. “You… hahaha! You actually chased someone? No wonder your clothes are completely f*cked! Miss Carter, desk jockey tryin’ to play cops and robbers! Hey, how’s that bum knee of yours workin’ out for ya?”

Aubrey looks down at the ground, her cheeks brightening in embarrassment. Her tail wraps around her stomach and her hands unconsciously move to cradle its feathered tip. So she’s… not a cop.

Suddenly, her eyes widen. She lets her tail fall back to its resting position before looking up at the guy holding my arm in defiance. “I didn’t get a good look at the suspect, but I saw a tail. The suspect was a dinosaur, not a human.”

Though his laughter has stopped, the cop still speaks in an overly condescending tone. “Well, that helps us narrow it down, don’t it? Why don’t you leave the police work to actual cops, you daffy broad? Speaking of…” He roughly spins me around to face him, staring menacingly into my eyes. The green ridges on the dilophosaurus’s head push aside the neatly trimmed black hair that makes itself visible under the sides of his uniquely shaped police cap. “We got some questions for you. You’re comin’ back to the station.”

All I can do is nod in acknowledgement. As he shoves me in the direction of the squad cars, three more pull up to join the two that had already parked. Officers begin piling out of them, immediately shooing away rubber-necking pedestrians who are suddenly interested in the scene now that there’s a police presence. One cop pulls a strand of yellow tape across the entrance of the alley that reads “Crime Scene - Do Not Cross”.

Another dinosaur, a spinosaurus fella, throws open the back door of the police car and shoots me a wicked-looking grin. The few times I’ve seen a guy get arrested, they at least help him into the backseat, being careful that the fella doesn’t hit his head on the way in. I guess I didn’t warrant such care; the big dilophosaurus bastard hucks me into the car like a bag of golf clubs. A few moments later, all three of us are on our way to the station.

I’ve never been arrested before. Sure, I’ve had cops shoot me dirty looks now and then, and the neighbors called ‘em on us a few times on nights when the fight between me and my ex turned into a competition of “who can scream louder” and “who can huck more of the other person’s sh*t out of the bedroom window”, but… this is my first time being in irons and getting hauled in. I’ve got no clue what’s gonna happen. For all I know, they could toss me in a cell and let me rot. If I don’t get out before my shift tomorrow, I’m losing my job for sure. Christ, what do I do? What am I…

I try to shake off the paranoia. I didn’t do anything wrong. I think back to Aubrey’s words. Don’t panic. Just answer their questions honestly. I’ll be okay.

The chair nearly comes out from underneath me as I’m forcefully tossed onto it by the surly dilophosaurus. My hands are still bound behind my back as I glance around the room, a single table and a few chairs being the only furnishings in this desolate concrete space. The light of a solitary bulb above us illuminates the hopelessness of this space… it’s an interrogation room. I remember seeing ‘em on that TV show, TrawlNet. When a suspect is brought in here… they usually don’t make it out without having confessed to their crimes.

As my eyes come to focus on the dinosaur that’s been man-handling me so far, I catch the name on his badge: “Duffy”. The other guy with him, the spinosaurus, wears the name “Preston” on his chest. Unlike Duffy, Preston’s badge practically sparkles, as if the thing was just minted yesterday.

Preston’s eyes flash at me menacingly before he turns to Duffy. “So, what do we get to do now? Rough him up a bit? We need to get him to talk, right?” His hand slides across the nightstick that hangs at his hip in a grotesquely sensual manner. If this guy has his way, I’m f*ckin’ dead.

Duffy narrows his eyes at the spinosaurus. “Don’t be an idiot, Preston. We only do that if he doesn’t cooperate with us.” He turns my way, a sly grin tugging at the sides of his mouth. “... You are gonna cooperate with us, ain’t ya?”

In the back of my mind, I want to make a snarky remark about how it seems to be in my best interest, considering my hands are still shackled behind my back and I’m in a room with two stacks of muscles who could pretty easily kick the sh*t out of me… but I opt for a simple stuttered reply instead. “Y-yeah… of course…”

Preston leans against the wall next to the door and crosses his arms, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth in clear disapproval of my willingness to cooperate. Duffy grabs one of the other chairs and takes a seat across from me. He scans me up and down before he begins his interrogation. “So… what exactly was a skinnie like you doin’ standing over a dead body?”

I do my best to steel my resolve against his penetrating gaze. I’m innocent, I just have to convince these guys of it. “I was on my way home from work. I heard the gunshots while I was near the alley where it connects to 46th Street.”

“So you just happened to be walkin’ by when a man got shot dead, is that right?”

“... Yeah, that’s right.”

Preston snorts. Duffy merely rolls his eyes. “Well, forgive me for finding that a little hard to believe. Because, you see… most people go in the opposite direction of gunshots. That is, unless they’re soldiers.” He crosses his arms. “You a soldier, skinnie?”

I avert my look to focus on the floor in front of me. “No, sir.”

“Then let me repeat my question. Why were you standin’ over that dead body?”

These guys are just tryin’ to get into my head. I didn’t do anything wrong. I just need to be honest. “I… had stopped to talk to that velociraptor woman. Aubrey, she said her name was. At the bus stop. Few seconds later, the gunshots were goin’ off.”

At this, Preston leans closer, a wicked sneer revealing his lethal-looking teeth. “And what, exactly, would compel a skinnie like you to talk to a bull dyke like her?”

Bull d- … a lesbian? I… didn’t get that impression from her… A pit forms in my stomach upon hearing the words, but I do my best to shake off the feeling. “She was hummin’ a jazz tune that I know. I recognized it, and stopped to mention it.”

At this, Duffy lets out a long breath through pursed lips and crosses his arms. He turns to Preston. “Well… that much checks out. That loopy dame never has her station set to anything but that f*ckin’ mess of noise.”

Without thinking, I blurt out the words. “It’s not f*ckin’ noise, it’s music.”

Both of the other sets of eyes in the room lock back onto me. I sincerely wish they had cuffed my ankles together, too, because it would have prevented me from so thoroughly inserting my boot into my own mouth. I feel my cheeks flush red as Duffy stands. “Then again, I don’t know that I’m buyin’ the story. You skinnies are always shootin’ each other without reason. Dunno why you’d just stand there instead of runnin’ away, but hey. Made our jobs easier, didn’t it?” He turns to Preston who chuckles at Duffy’s words.

I balk. “I-I don’t have a gun!”

Duffy shrugs at this. “Awful lot of garbage in that alleyway, lots of places you coulda dumped a piece. We’ll have to dig around for a while, but when it turns up, your goose will be well and truly f*cked.”

His words make me freeze in place. The alley. The money. If they go searching top to bottom, they could easily find it. And if they do-

The wicked grin reappears on Preston’s face. “If you just confess to doin’ it, this would all go a lot easier for ya.”

I try to bring a hand up to wipe the moisture that’s accumulating on my brow, but the handcuffs make this a difficult prospect. Raptor Christ, between the heat and the pressure, I’m sweating like a whor* in church. What the hell do I have to say to prove to these guys I’m innocent?! “Y-you guys heard Aubrey! She’s a… she works for the police, doesn’t she? You said yourself that she’s a desk jockey.”

Duffy frowns at this. “... Yeah, she is. She ain’t a f*ckin’ cop though.”

“But she still works for you. Why would she lie about me to you?”

This causes him to pause. He glances down, running his thumb and forefinger across the bottom of his snout in contemplation. Before he can come up with an answer, however, Preston provides one. “It wouldn’t surprise me if a bitch that likes horrible skinnie music would try to protect a skinnie. Allegiance is a funny thing, ain’t it?”

Duffy glances over at Preston, taking his words into consideration. Though he doesn’t seem fully convinced, he shrugs. “Well, I don’t think we’re gonna get any further today. I say we let you stew in a cell for a few days. See if it jogs your memory at all.”

No. I can’t- I’ll f*ckin’ get fired! I can’t lose my job! I try to open my mouth to vocalize these points in protest, but no words come out. As Duffy stands and hoists me from my chair, the door of the room suddenly swings open violently. On the other side of the portal, a pterodactyl man with brown, leathery wings, an orange crest and a hell of a scowl flashes his teeth at the two officers. His voice is booming and authoritative. “What is the meaning of this?!”

Duffy’s grip on me immediately releases as he faces the pterodactyl. “Commissioner?! We were just-”

He is unable to finish the sentence. “Uncuff him this instant.”

Begrudgingly, Duffy turns towards me. The look in his eyes is one of pure hatred. He forcefully rotates me away from him, grabbing the iron links around my wrists and sliding a small key into each, unlocking and removing the restraints in the process. My hands now unbound, I bring them in front of my body, gently rubbing the sore skin where the metal had been cutting off my circulation.

The pterodactyl steps aside and points down the hall, still focusing on the two officers in the room. “Out.”

They both oblige his request, Preston shooting me one last cruel, toothy smile before disappearing from eyesight. After watching them travel down the hallway for a moment, the pterodactyl man who I know from Duffy’s identification to be the commissioner steps into the room, letting out a heavy sigh as he meets my eyes. “... Carter filled me in. You’re not being charged with anything.”

I’m caught off guard by all of this, merely staring blankly towards the pterosaur for a moment before shaking the surprise away. “Y-you mean… I’m-”

“You’re free to go.” He purses his lips. It seems like he wants to say something else, but stops himself. Instead, he simply steps aside and points down the hall in the opposite direction of where Duffy and Preston traveled. “Staircase on your right will take you to the ground floor.”

I’m not staying here a second longer than I need to. “Th-thank you, sir!” With a quick nod, I hustle past the commissioner and up the stairs he directed me towards. Thank God. I thought I was gonna be spending the next few days in a cell for some sh*t I didn’t even do. But… why did the commissioner suddenly come in and rescue my ass? He said it was… Carter?

Just as my mind puts two and two together, I arrive at the top of the stairs. In the lobby of the police station, seated on one of the benches near the entrance, is the same blue velociraptor woman I met earlier. The grocery bag that had been perched next to her at the bus stop once again rests by her side, though the bag has a noticeable rip in it that allows some of the groceries within to peek out of their small brown prison.

Aubrey…

Aubrey Carter. That’s right, Carter was her last name. She… she stuck up for me to the commissioner and got my ass bailed out. Her head turns my direction just as I come into view; she springs to her feet, still seeming to favor her left leg as she offers me an apologetic smile. “Samuel! Raptor Jesus, you’re alright! I’m sorry they did this to you!”

I shrug and smirk as I approach, afforded an air of unearned confidence now that I’m not sweating my balls off and shackled in the dark dungeon. “Hey, it’s no problem. They just questioned me was all. Besides… I had some good advice going into it. Thank you for that.”

She blinks, confused for a moment as to what I meant before smiling again. She has a really nice smile. “Oh, that. I’m… glad you were able to keep your cool.”

“Dunno about all that. Honestly, I got you to thank for putting in a good word for me with that pissed off pterodactyl fella.”

“That pterodactyl fella is Commissioner Aaron. He’s a good man. Wouldn’t have let that happen to you if he knew what was going on right away. It’s…” She trails off for a moment, glancing around to see if anyone is nearby and listening. Noting that the coast is clear, she leans a little closer and speaks quietly. “It can be rough around here. Some of the officers can be… assholes.”

I chuckle, quickly cutting myself off when I notice the look she shoots me. “Tryin’ to keep the sentiment on the down-low, sure, sure. I just… well, I got first hand experience with that now is all. Present company excluded, o’course.”

At this, Aubrey turns her eyes downwards and lets out a sigh. Her tail twitches, bringing its tip up towards her front, seeming to beg to be held by her. She doesn’t accept its request, instead fastening her gaze to mine again. “I’m sorry about lying to you about being a cop… I… shouldn’t have done that.”

My hand moves to the back of my neck. “Well… you weren’t being entirely dishonest with it. You do work for the police, right?”

She nods. “Yeah, but I do clerical work. I’m… trying to become a police officer.”

“Ahh, I heard about that. They’re letting women into those police programs now, aren’t they? Think I read about it in the paper, some precincts here in Old York are already getting lady officers.” I scrunch my nose. “What are they gonna be called? Policewomen?”

She gives a small smile. “I suppose so. But, still. I shouldn’t have lied to you. I might have put you in danger. That’s… not what a cop is supposed to do.” Her tail beckons her to cradle it again, and this time she obliges, putting her hands around its feathered end and holding it in embarrassment.

I do my best to shrug it off. “Hey, don’t sweat it, Aubrey. You were trying to do the right thing. Cop or not, that’s admirable. Besides, you had me there with you!” I pause. “... Erm… not that I woulda been any good, mind you. But, hey. I’m great at providing moral support.”

This finally gets her to laugh, causing her posture to relax and her tail to return to its place behind her. Her smile is bright and her laugh is enchanting. “You are an odd one, Samuel Lawson! But thank you for the moral support!”

I can’t help but chuckle along. “Happy to be of service!” I glance down at her dirtied dress and bloodied knees. “Though… I wish I coulda been of more help, by the looks of it. You alright?”

She brushes some of the hair from her face. “Mmhmm, no big deal. It’s just a dress. I took a bad fall while pursuing the suspect.” I glance down at her shoes, noticing she’s not wearing heels so I’m unsure what might have caused her to take a dive. The cops at the scene of the crime said something about… her leg? Her knee? I can barely remember, hoping to God I didn’t get a concussion from that tackle I took. She opens her mouth as if to say something, but stops herself, shaking her head slightly. “... I’m fine. But thank you for asking.”

The air hangs awkward between us for a moment. Aubrey holds fast to my eyes with her own, their yellow orbs swirling with consideration. I’ve got no clue what she’s thinking right now, but I silently curse myself for not being more charming than I am. Instead, I awkwardly stuff my hands into my pockets and glance past her towards the exit. “Well… I guess since I’m not behind bars, I can head ho-”

“Samuel.” She cuts me off, but doesn’t provide a reason why. Instead, she seems to wrestle with her own mind for a moment, her eyes darting left and right as she witnesses some sort of internal melee occurring. All I can do is co*ck my head, unsure as to what else she needs.

After a moment, she takes a deep, resolute breath, nods to herself, and pulls the small purse she has tucked under her arm around to her frontside.It’s not one of those purses that’s packed with everything and the kitchen sink like you see some women walkin’ around with. Instead, it looks to only have her bare essentials, though I can’t see inside of it from where I’m at. Her hand comes to rest inside the purse, and after one more moment of what looks to be decisive encouragement, she withdraws what she was searching for.

Thus far, she’s come across as a pretty clear-spoken woman, but for the first time I hear her stumble over her words. “You… I mean, I… got these tickets… I got two of ‘em… and… I was just- mind you, it’s not a date or nothin’, but… I… here.” She jams one of the two tickets into my hands with a huff, clearly not satisfied with her delivery. Her cheeks glow red. What on earth…

Chapter 5: Aubrey

Chapter Text

Thump, thump…

…

Thump, thump…

… What is that?

Thump, thump…

Sounds like… a drum beat. But a fast one. Something with that cool tempo that makes you want to move your feet…

Thump, thump…

I wonder if it’s ‘Nica’s Dream’ by Horace Bronze. 201M1956 BC. Certainly got the tempo for it, but seems to be lacking the wonderful bass line and horn work.

Thump, thump…

No… it’s something else… it almost reminds me of Art Drakey’s ‘Moanin’’, an instant classic from him and his Jazz Couriers that came out at the beginning of this year. If it is, it’s bein’ played in double time because this beat is maddeningly fast.

Thump, thump…

It’s… not a drum.

I bring a hand to my chest, feeling the reverberations of the heightened pace of my heart.

Thump, thump…

I glance forward. It’s him. Samuel. Standing against the darkness surrounding me.

Thump, thump.

… Sammy. His kind smile urges me to step towards him.

I begin to do so, but realize there’s no place for my foot to go.

I look down. A staircase.

Thump, thump.

Thump, THUMP.

The voice I always dread draws close.

THUMP THUMP

I try to spin around, but it’s too late.

THUMP THUMP

THUMP THU-

…

With a gasp, I fling the blanket off of myself as I rapidly sit up. My hands tightly grip my midsection as I double over, sucking in air to try to steady my heartbeat. My tail quivers as it wraps around me, squeezing me in an unconscious hug. I try to draw my legs towards myself, but my right knee is locked up. I let out a sob, unable to work the kink out of it because of my hunched posture and occupied hands.

That goddamn dream again. Why, of all days…

His smile appears past the blackened cloud in my mind.

Sammy.

My breathing slows and my grip loosens, but my heartbeat doesn’t steady itself, now compelled to its accelerated rhythm by a different emotion. It’s the same way I felt yesterday when I was trying to decide whether to give him one of my tickets. It’s the same way I felt when he asked for my number. When I felt his eyes linger on me as I departed the station and headed home.

This feeling in my chest, caused by his kind eyes and his warm smile.

I glance at the clock radio next to me. About forty-five minutes before I would have woken up for my shift. I roll my eyes and slump backwards onto the bed, the muscles around my right knee loosening slightly with my posture shift. There’s no use in trying to go back to bed now. Not with the way I’m feeling.

His smile returns to my imagination again.

… Get a grip on yourself, Aubrey. It’s not a date. You told him as much.

… But did he buy it?

I bury my face in my hands as I try to conceal my own stupid grin, feeling the heat emanating from my reddened cheeks. Raptor Christ, I feel like a f*ckin’ school girl. What’s getting into me? He’s… he’s a human, for goodness sake. Forget about his warm smile, or his kind eyes, or his handsome features… he’s a…

No. It’s nothing. He’s just a nice fella that had to go through some sh*t because of me. If he hadn’t stopped to talk to me, he wouldn’t have gone to that crime scene. He wouldn’t have been arrested and questioned by those assholes at the station. He… wouldn’t be going to this show tonight with me.

… He wouldn’t have been in my dream. The only bright spot amidst the darkness of that hell I keep reliving. Most mornings I wake up with tears staining my cheeks. Today, though… yes, my heart was going a mile a minute, but was it because of the dream, or…?

I shake away the notions and force myself to sit up again, my locked knee straining itself once more. My escapades yesterday didn’t help it any; I fully expected it to be an asshole to me this morning after my drop in the alley. Quietly cursing the bungled heap of cartilage under my knee cap, I slowly massage the sides of the joint to work the kink out. Eventually, I’m able to retract my leg properly, its looming tenderness warning me that I’d better be careful with it today unless I want to taste concrete again.

I cautiously climb out of bed, favoring my other leg more heavily with my tail adding a little extra acrobatic balance to my slow gait across my bedroom. It’s a curious thing that humans don’t have the extra appendage; I’ve often found myself wondering how they manage without one. My mind wanders back to Sammy again, somewhat to my dismay as my tail begins neglecting its balancing duty in favor of happily swaying back and forth.

This is gonna be a hell of a long day. I already know it.

I spend some extra time on my morning shower and preparation, both because of the additional minutes afforded me by my nightmare and because of the butterflies in my stomach. The show’s not until eight o’clock which means I’ll have time to swing home and freshen up. All the same, I find myself filled with a desire to pretty myself up, a desire I haven’t had in a very long time.

It’s not a date, but I still want to look nice. I’m gonna be in public, and I’m gonna be at a Miles Cratis concert.

… And Sammy is gonna be there.

I let out an irritated huff due to my reddening cheeks making the application of my blush makeup more difficult than it should have been. The applicator brush clatters on the bathroom counter as I stomp back to the bedroom to turn on the clock radio. It’s still ten minutes before my alarm would have turned on the tunes naturally, but I need to distract myself.

As the radio crackles to life and begins intercepting the invisible sound waves and translating them for my ears to register, my breath catches in my throat. It’s Horace Bronze’s ‘Nica’s Dream’. One of the songs I thought about during my dream due to the rapid drumming of my own heart. The trumpet and tenor sax playfully weave around one another with the backing of Horace’s beautiful piano riffs. My tail sways in time with the uptempo beat as Sammy’s smiling face lights up my imagination yet again.

Apparently there’s nothing for it. Only thing to do is get myself ready and get my ass into the station so that my daily mountain of paperwork can keep me sufficiently distracted. I finish my morning prep and make my way to the bus stop, doing my best to think about anything but the date I have toni-

…

It’s not a date. It’s not a date.

Onboard the familiar green and white vessel, distraction comes to me in about the most unpleasant way possible. I stare across the aisle of the bus at a vacant seat, one that was occupied just yesterday by the gentleman who died in that alley. The skittish, panicked man whose killer I was unable to identify due to my piece of sh*t knee… I lower my gaze, feeling as though I failed the stranger. I might not have been able to save his life, but I could have at least ID’d the one responsible for his death. Give him a little justice, let his spirit be at peace…

I just have to leave it to the professionals. I hope they’re taking the case seriously and not just writing it off as a random homicide that’ll go cold and get shoved into a filing cabinet somewhere to be forgotten about. I know this city has a reputation, but a person doesn’t just get gunned down in broad daylight for no reason, especially not a human getting murdered by a dinosaur.

Arriving at the stop nearest to the police station, I climb the staircase leading up to its impressive front doors, lavishly crafted oak slabs beneath the state crest that hangs above the threshold. There are side entrances that staff and officers frequently use, but I enjoy utilizing the main entrance. The building almost feels alive when you see it from this perspective, hosting a long and storied history of serving and protecting a small piece of the largest city in our nation.

Ruth barely notices me as I walk past, focusing instead on the day’s newspaper crossword. Unlike last night when she was nearly finished with it, today’s puzzle is hardly filled in at all. Understandably, she has a job to do so she ticks in a few boxes whenever the opportunity presents itself. I tried offering her an answer once and she injected ice into my veins with the stare she gave me in reply. Guess she likes doing ‘em herself, without any help.

Before I can make my way up the stairs to the second story where my desk is located, a booming voice calls my name from down the hall on the right side of the lobby. “CARTER. MY OFFICE.” I freeze for a moment, knowing to whom the voice belongs but unsure as to how he detected my passing. Though his office has impressive windows, none of them directly face the lobby. I gulp, chalking it up to superior pterodactyl senses as I turn in the direction of the commissioner.

The walk to his office is a physically short but emotionally long journey. I already know why I’m being called upon, but I had hoped it wouldn’t happen the moment I stepped foot in the building. My discussion with him was a brief one yesterday; I only told him that Samuel was guilty of nothing, and I was dismissed after that since the commissioner had to deal with everything else, including the two officers who were unlawfully detaining an innocent bystander. I figured I’d be questioned today, but… it’s a tough way to start my morning.

His door is ajar, allowing me to squeeze through the opening to the space on the other side. He looks up from the paperwork on his desk to meet my eyes, wordlessly conveying that I should close the door behind myself; I do so. Taking a seat across from him, I try to greet him with pleasantry before the reprimand I expect. “Good morning, Commissioner Aaron.”

He lets out a small grunt in acknowledgement. If I was in a lot of trouble, he wouldn’t have even done that. I only got in a lot of trouble once, and that was when I mailed a reminder of unpaid parking tickets to the wrong person. It was an honest mistake, I didn’t realize who it was since Ragnar is such a common last name among dinosaurs. This didn’t appease Commissioner Aaron who chewed me out as fiercely as he got chewed out by Mayor Robert Ragnar for my blunder. As I learned that day, we don’t ticket the mayor. Ever.

The pterodactyl before me folds his hands on his desk and leans forward. He doesn’t look happy, but doesn’t speak as harshly as I would have expected. “Can you please explain to me in more detail what happened yesterday?” I glance down, my tail slowly gliding across the floor, twitching in anticipation as it yearns to be cradled in my hands. “You told me that the human we brought in wasn’t the shooter, and I appreciate that. But what I’m hazy on is why you were there. Why were you battered and bloodied, standing next to a deceased individual with a human bystander?”

I unconsciously rub the palms of my hands. They’re still scraped up from yesterday, not enough to need bandages but the broken scales sting a bit. “... I was at the bus stop when the gunshots went off. I heard five shots, two at first, then three in rapid succession. Sa- … The human who was with me… had stopped to talk with me at the bus stop a couple minutes before the shots.”

Commissioner Aaron flips over a few sheets of paper and uncaps his pen, beginning to jot down notes. As the trails of ink begin drying, he glances up at me again, clearly not content with where my explanation ended thus far. I sigh before continuing, realizing what I have to confess. “... I went towards the gunshots. I-”

He cuts me off. “You were trying to be a cop.”

“... Yes, sir.”

The fingers of his free hand close around the bridge of his beak in irritation. “After the discussion we had yesterday morning… the same discussion we have every week…” My only reply is to lower my head. “You work for the police department, and you’re an employee of the city, but that doesn’t mean you should try to be a hero in situations like this. You should have called us. We could have been there even sooner if we got a call from someone we knew and trusted instead of a random panicked citizen.”

The emphasis he puts on the word “trusted” makes my heart sink. I’m not certain he meant it that way, but it stings like a parent saying they aren’t sure they can trust you anymore after you get caught in a lie. Commissioner Aaron seems to notice my emotional downturn, clearing his throat before speaking again. “What happened next?”

I still don’t meet his eyes, doing everything in my power to keep my tail from climbing into my arms. “When we came across the body, I saw the suspect fleeing across the street. They darted around the corner of the alley across from me before I could get a solid look at them, but it was a dinosaur of some sort. I saw the tip of their tail.”

He scribbles more notes. “Can you tell what kind of dinosaur it was, or the color?”

I shake my head. “It… seemed like a longer tail, so probably not a pterodactyl. Too big to be a compsognathus, too. But… that’s all I could really tell you. It was too dark to make out the color. Might have been a dark blue, or dark green. I’m not certain.”

“Notice any plates, feathers, anything like that?”

I shake my head again. “I’m sorry, no.” His pen continues moving across the paper. “I… tried to pursue. I wanted to get a visual ID on the suspect, but… my knee locked up. I wasn’t able to see them in time. I heard their car peel out before I could crawl around the corner of the alley.”

He sighs as he finishes his notes, setting his pen down and meeting my eyes again. He doesn’t have to say anything at all for me to understand his thoughts. He just told me yesterday that my bad knee would prevent me from entering the academy, and now the harsh truth of my disability stares me in the face just as clearly as Commissioner Aaron’s disappointed gaze. I do my best to fight back the tears that threaten to spill forth, biting my lip and embedding my claws into the bruised palms of my hands.

Graciously, the commissioner rises from his desk and turns away from me, clasping his wrist behind his back as he stares out the window of his office towards the tree that stands roughly fifteen feet away from the building. I use the opportunity to wipe my eyes with my sleeves, doing everything in my power to keep from audibly sniffling. His words fill the silence. “... I’m not going to formally reprimand you. This all technically took place while you were off the clock, and despite your reckless behavior, you didn’t do anything to impede police work. The suspect would have fled either way.” He turns my way once more, wearing a slight but warm smile. “At least we know it was a dinosaur that fled the scene, thanks to you. It might not be much, but it’s better than nothing.”

His small olive branch of praise is a kind gesture, but I know what still needs to be said. “... I’m sorry for being reckless, sir. I should have used my head. If the suspect was still by the victim, I could have put myself at risk, or the human who was with me.” I lower my head again. “I don’t need to have gone to the academy to know that a proper police officer wouldn’t put people in danger needlessly.”

He closes his eyes and nods, approving of my self-reflection. “You’re a bright young woman and you’ve got a lot of guts.” He meets my eyes again, offering an almost fatherly look. “You’d have made a fine police officer, if fate had dealt you a different hand. As it stands, I’m glad to have you here with us.”

“... Thank you, sir.”

As he retakes his seat, he adds the afterthought, “Oh, you might want to steer clear of Duffy and Preston at shift change. I put them both on night duty for the little stunt they pulled with that Samuel Lawson fellow. Neither of them are too happy with you right now, I’m afraid.”

That makes sense. Even if Commissioner Aaron hadn’t told them outright that it was my word that got Sammy cut loose, they’d be smart enough to put two and two together. I’m also momentarily caught off guard that the commissioner knew Sammy’s name, but quickly realize that he would have been processed as he was brought in. Name, address, any previous convictions… I consider for a moment pulling his file myself to see if there’s any dirt on him, but discard the thought as quickly as it arises. If he was a crook, he wouldn’t have been released so quickly, even with me advocating for his innocence.

My sit-down with the commissioner had distracted me from Sammy for a while, but now he’s front and center in my imagination again, smiling his gentle smile at me, filling my stomach with butterflies. Tonight is gonna be great, I just know-

The commissioner glances up at me from his paperwork, raising an eyebrow to wordlessly question why I’m still in his office. Oops, guess I spaced out for a second. He clarifies his position on the matter. “Dismissed, Carter.”

“O-oh! Sorry! Thank you, sir.” I hurriedly shuffle out of the room and upstairs to my own desk, feeling the heat radiating from my flushed cheeks. I hope I wasn’t blushing like a moron in there. The fifteen minutes I spent with him has given the accumulating paperwork on my desk a headstart for the day, and I quickly set to work on processing the forms and fulfilling my responsibilities. I need the distraction to keep my mind from wandering as capriciously as it’s been doing all morning. In a rare show of self-control, I even stop myself from turning on my radio, worrying that the familiar jazz tunes will make my thoughts return to the show tonight, and to…

Paperwork. Focus on paperwork, Aubrey.

I stay a little past my normal clock-out time to ensure that I’m caught up with everything I needed to get done for the day. I occasionally glance around, keeping an eye out for Duffy or Preston, but neither of them make their presence known. I’ll take a little good luck. Though I doubt either of them would do anything too outrageous, I don’t need to get an earful from them on how they think I’m responsible for the sh*t hours they gotta work. Hell, I’d say it to their faces: they were way out of line with how they treated Sammy. Maybe the cooler evening air will help simmer their hot heads a little bit.

The bus ride home feels like it takes an eternity. It doesn’t have any more stops than average, but each minute that passes is agony as my heart threatens to beat its way out of my chest. I fidget with my purse, pushing my keys and lip balm around absent-mindedly to do something besides think about tonight. I desperately wish I had gum, but I keep forgetting to pick up another pack. I chew it rarely, never having had an oral fixation, but it’s still nice to freshen your breath when it’s needed, or chomp on when you desperately seek distraction.

It’ll be fine. Everything will be fine tonight. I’m going to enjoy the music, and I’m sure Sammy will have a nice time, too. That is, unless I make an ass of myself or say something boneheaded. sh*t, I don’t even know what to talk about with him. He likes jazz, obviously, but is he as much of a jazz hound as I am? Is he gonna be turned off if I start spewing factoids about when a song was released, or how many pressings the album has had? I’m like a damned encyclopedia with this useless information…

What if he thinks I’m a loon? A dizzy dame who spends more time with her snout in a book about music theory than cooking or cleaning? I mean, I’m no slob and I’m an okay cook, but… what is he gonna think about me as a woman?

… What would any man? After…

My fingers tighten into fists. No, Aubrey. You’re not doing that to yourself. Not now, not so close to tonight. I’m not going to ruin the evening for myself, or for Sammy.

I’m lurched out of my malaise by the bus coming to a stop, realizing just in time that it’s my stop. I dart through the doors before the driver pulls them shut, earning an irritated look from the punctual dinosaur. Taking a quick breath to steady myself, I travel the few blocks it takes me to arrive home at my apartment.

With all the excitement going on in my head, I barely registered the oppressive heat that only grows more oppressive with each passing day. Back in June, the papers said that records were being broken: seventy-year-old highs were outdone by fractions of a degree. It’s not getting to be quite that hot yet, but it’s damn close. The blissful AC of my apartment offers escape from the sweltering air; only when the sun goes down does the temperature become tolerable. And the sun should be going down right around the time the show starts tonight…

I focus on throwing together my supper quickly instead of the goosebumps that crawl across my arms. Leftover hamburger from last night, a fine quick dinner that won’t bog me down too much. Though, I wonder if Sammy is going to eat before the show. My eyes dart over to my purse that rests on the kitchen table. His phone number is in there. I could give him a quick call…

No, no, no. It’s not a date! I shake my head and go back to my own meal preparation. I’m sure he can get something for himself before the show. I glance at the clock as the patty within the stovetop pan sizzles and pops. Almost six o’clock. I’ll eat, get myself freshened up, and be out the door by seven. I don’t want to be late, I wouldn’t miss tonight for the world.

A hamburger in the stomach heavier and a fresh application of makeup later, I give myself one final review in the mirror. I don’t have much in terms of fancy clothes, but this particular dress is special to me. Its vibrant color perfectly matches my eyes, the golden yellow hue offering stark contrast to the blue of my scales and feathers. Though it’s a few years old and maybe not the hot style anymore, it still looks great on me. I only wear it on special occasions when I want to look my best, and I haven’t had a good reason to bring it out of the closet in a lot of months.

I roll my shoulders a bit, ensuring the portrait collar rests in an even spot on my frame. The white lace accents on the collar lend the otherwise simple dress a certain air of beauty that I really love. I twist my hips a little and tug at the pleats of the skirt, finding the correct spot for the dress to rest on my meager curves. When my eyes meet their reflection in the mirror, taking in the full scope of my transformation, a smile tugs at the sides of my mouth.

… I look really nice.

I shake off the momentary pride and glance at the clock. A little after seven. I shouldn’t have a problem catching a bus over to the Birdland jazz club; it’s on 52nd and Broadway, over in Cavemanhattan. I briefly consider calling a taxi, but set the idea aside. With my purse in hand, my ticket secured within, I make my way down to the street.

The evening air has begun predictably cooling, albeit ever so slightly. I’ll have no need for a jacket even after the sun sets, it’ll stay above seventy all night. Arriving at the bus stop, I take a seat upon the familiar bench, glancing down the road to see if my ride is already approaching. Only cars zip by, so I return to my as-of-late favorite pastime: worrying immensely about the night ahead.

… I do hope I haven’t overdone it with my look. I mean, I wanted to dress up anyway because… it’s Birdland. The Birdland. You don’t just waltz into the single hottest jazz club this side of Old Orleans without paying it the proper respect. But… what if I make Sammy uncomfortable? He might not have dressed up himself, and if I drastically outclass him in the fashion department, will that make him unhappy?

I bring an irritated hand to my forehead. Knock it off, you f*ckin’ school girl. Everything will be fine! As soon as I step off the bus and see him waiting outside the club, all this worry and panic is just gonna melt away. You’re a strong gal, Aubrey. You got this.

Speaking of the bus, I try to spot an incoming shuttle, but still don’t catch sight of one. It’s been a few minutes, at least-

My heart stops in my chest. Is… is the bus even still running this late? I know some buses keep going, but how many shut down their routes at the end of the work day?! Is this one of them?! I spring to my feet, craning my neck to try to catch sight of the familiar green and white vehicle, but see no form of public transportation.

sh*t. How long do I wait? How long has it already been? I can’t risk being late! Not tonight! Stupid, why didn’t you check the bus schedule earlier? What a bone-headed oversight. I weigh my options, cursing the fact that I don’t own a wristwatch to tell the time easily. With a groan, I begin briskly making my way in the direction of downtown. It’s way too far to go on foot, but the closer I get to the center of the city, the quicker I’ll see a taxi I can flag down.

Thankfully, I didn’t wear heels. Given my bad knee, heeled shoes are a terrible idea regardless of the occasion. I was blessed with decent height for a velociraptor so I don’t feel the need to compensate in that particular area. Even with my comfortable footwear, I don’t dare move at anything faster than a quick walk. I can’t risk another fall, not in this dress. Not tonight.

After about ten minutes of travel, I finally spot the familiar black and yellow checkers of a vacant cab. I flag it down and climb into the back seat. The driver, a sallow-eyed gallimimus with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, cranes his neck around to size me up. His eyes roam up and down my dress before meeting my stern look. He sighs before speaking in a grizzled tone. “Where to, lady?”

“52nd and Broadway, and make it fast, please.”

He emits a raspy chuckle. “Yeah, sure thing. Hope ya don’t got plans.”

I raise an eyebrow. “... What do you mean?”

“Traffic’s a nightmare aroun’ there at dis time o’ day. Well, any time o’ day, ‘cept the asscrack o’ three AM, maybe!” He slaps the small ticker box hanging from his dash, causing the numbers indicating the fare to spin down to their initial position of 25 cents. As soon as he takes off, the numbers slowly begin ticking up every few blocks in increments of 5 cents.

I stare out the window, cursing my bad luck and even worse planning. Even if I had gotten to a bus, it couldn’t have gotten through traffic any better than a cab could have. You idiot, Aubrey. Why didn’t you leave earlier? Sure, there’s “fashionably late”, but this is Miles Cratis. You don’t show up late for Miles Cratis! You don’t show up late for your first date wi-

…

All I can do is watch as the buildings soar by, their proximity to one another tightening just as much as their height grows. Block by block, the city becomes more imposing, neon lights bathing the streets in their multichromatic hues. It’s a city I loved dearly, at one time. One I might even still love, save for the bad memories.

We slow to a crawl around 40th and Broadway. Still twelve blocks away from the club. I peer past the cabbie and his fare box that currently reads 80 cents. Nothing but brake lights and the occasional blaring car horn ahead of us for the foreseeable future. I let out a defeated sigh before pulling a dollar out of my purse and handing it to the driver. As he accepts it, I ask, “Do you have the time, by chance?”

He brings his left wrist into view, scanning the device upon it before replying. “... ‘Bout 7:52.” I climb out of the taxi, earning a half-hearted “Thanks” on my way towards the sidewalk. Twelve blocks in eight minutes… with a sh*t knee. Even if I jogged, that’d be cutting it close, and I can’t risk jogging. I just have to do my best and get there as quickly as my legs can carry me.

The sidewalks are bustling with life and energy. Even on a weekday night, thousands of people come and go, making their way into and out of the numerous shops, restaurants and places of entertainment. Despite its name, Cavemanhattan is host to more than just humans; dinosaurs of all shapes, sizes and colors explore everything the city has to offer alongside the cavemen and cro magnons that, less than a hundred years ago, involuntarily served dinokind in many parts of the country. Even today, even in this metropolis I call home, if you look closely enough you can see signs of prejudice and lingering malice towards the humans. But… at least we’re making progress. I wish it was more, but… it’s something.

Several minutes go by before I see the silhouette of the sidewalk-overhanging canopy with bold letters emblazoned on each of its three visible sides: “Birdland”. Above it hangs another banner with even larger lettering that reads: “This Week Only: Miles Cratis”. My heart skips a beat as I grow closer, knowing that in just a few short minutes I’ll be able to see, in person, one of the greatest living jazz musicians on the planet.

It’s still a couple blocks away, but I begin to make out the shapes of people standing around the entrance. Several dozen, maybe even a hundred. Whether they’re in line with tickets in hand, or part of the sorry collection that didn’t get a ticket and now mill about in hopes that a seat may randomly open up, I can’t be sure. But I am almost positive that Sammy is among the crowd. He didn’t strike me as the type to be late, even fashionably so.

My knee sings a song of its own as I get within a block of the club. Though I didn’t run, my quickened pace has irritated the already annoyed tendons, and while I don’t sense a lock-up approaching, it’s warning me that it isn’t afraid to employ that tactic again if I push it. I pray that the tenuous peace I’ve achieved with it holds out for the night.

Finally arriving at the edge of the small crowd, I begin my search for Sammy. Almost everyone gathered around is human; I only spot one other dinosaur, a well-dressed dimetrodon who mills about with the others that await admittance. Another jazz enthusiast who appreciates the music despite the stereotypes is my hope. I move my gaze further around, craning my neck to see if he might be-

“Hey, there you are!” The voice makes me jump slightly and I spin around to face its owner. He holds up his hands in an apologetic gesture. “Whoah, sorry about that, Aubrey! Didn’t mean to startle ya.” He offers me an embarrassed grin as he nervously scratches the back of his neck. The moment I lay eyes on his smile, I feel my heart try to beat its way out of my chest.

I can’t tell if I’m blushing like an idiot, but I have to try to keep cool. I clear my throat as I tilt my head up a little and employ what little gravitas I can fake. “It’s not polite to sneak up on a woman, you know!” Try as I might, I can’t keep the sides of my own lips from moving upwards, betraying my incensed tone.

Sammy leans into the bit with me, doffing his cap as he offers an overly corny bow and an even more corny and foppish accent. “Well, I am so immensely sorry, milady! It shan't happen again!”

I can’t help but let out a laugh, one that he joins me in as he retakes his upright stance and puts his hat back on. I wasn’t exactly sure how he was going to dress for the night, but I am impressed by what I see. The light gray button-up shirt is the only non-black article of clothing he wears, with his suit jacket, slacks and mirror-polished shoes all lending themselves to a cool yet mysterious look. He wears a bowler hat in place of the flat cap he had on when I met him yesterday, as black as the rest of his outerwear and offering a wonderfully “formal-yet-informal” feel to his wardrobe.

It seems that he’s been eyeing up my outfit at the same time I was examining him. He lets out a short whistle. “Wow, Aubrey. You look… well, you look great!”

Now I know I’m blushing. I flick my eyes to the side. “Th-thank you, Sammy. You look nice, too.”

A wide grin overtakes him that causes my heart to skip a beat again. He scratches the back of his neck. “Heh, thanks. I never been to a place like this before, so I wasn’t sure how nice I should dress up. Hope I didn’t overdo it… or under-do it.” He glances around at the crowd, nervously sliding a hand across the front of his shirt where a tie would be hanging if he were wearing one.

I smile at his display, but it fades quickly as I realize I still owe him an apology. “Um… I’m really sorry about keeping you waiting. I don’t like being late for things, especially something like this, but traffic was a nightmare.”

Sammy peeks over his shoulder towards the road. Sure enough, many of the cars that had been stationed there at the beginning of our conversation are still there, the occasional horn offering its contribution to the soundscape of the city. “Yeah, it wasn’t much better for me. I had to bail outta my cab about ten blocks away and hustle my ass over here. I was worried I was gonna be late!” His eyes meet mine again. “S’no problem, anyways! See, they ain’t even started lettin’ folks in ye-”

As he gestures towards the front door, the burly cro magnon man who stands security unhooks the red velvet rope that hangs in front of the entrance and begins ushering people in as another human, less burly and more feminine, accepts tickets being presented to her. Sammy grins. “Whoops. Guess they made a liar outta me.”

I giggle as I reach for my purse and withdraw my token of admittance. “Shall we?”

Sammy reaches into his jacket pocket and reveals the ticket I gave him yesterday. “After you!”

We step into the line as folks are slowly ushered into the building. The club doesn’t always have advanced ticket entry, but they have to implement the policy every now and again. For a big act like Miles Cratis, you bet your bottom dollar it’ll be a pre-booked show. Hell, if these tickets hadn’t showed up at the station like they did, I wouldn’t be here right now.

It turns out, not everyone in line is as lucky as I was. A few disgruntled people are turned away at the door, with one particular man beginning to shout vulgarities at the bouncer. His tirade includes shaking fists and embarrassing posturing, none of which phases the cro magnon security in the slightest. All the same, the “gentleman” feels the need to make a show of his machismo that honestly appears like nothing more than a tantrum.

Sammy steps a little ahead of me, positioning himself in between the belligerent fella and myself. He doesn’t say anything, instead keeping an eye on the man as we get closer to the front of the line. However, before we step past the rescinded velvet rope, a final string of curse words sees the irate buffoon away from the entrance and down the sidewalk, stuffing his hands into his pockets and drooping his shoulders dejectedly. Sammy replies to the scene by turning back to me and flicking his eyebrows. “Good thing we got our tickets in advance, huh?”

I smile and nod, feeling myself blush again as he looks ahead towards the ticket collector. He… put himself between me and that potential danger. Well, as dangerous as that inconsolable toddler was, at least, but… he still looked out for my safety. And he didn’t do it consciously, either. I might have been insulted if he did; I’m a capable woman, I can take care of myself. But he just… sorta did it. Almost… instinctively. The butterflies in my stomach nearly lift me off the ground.

I glance around, frantically trying to find something to take my mind off of the rapid beating of my heart. Noticing the name of the club suspended over the front door we have nearly arrived at, I stammer out the first thing that pops into my head. “S-so, Sammy! Do you know why they call it Birdland?”

He faces me again with his intensely handsome smile before pondering the question for a moment. “Hmm. Does it got somethin’ to do with Charlie Larker?”

I can’t stop myself from smiling along with him. “That’s right! He went by ‘Bird’ which was a shortening of his nickname ‘Yardbird’, and he helped open the club up in December of 201M1949 BC! Though, to be truthful, it was him lending his name to the club more so than doing any real business! Besides, he’s a musician, not a jazz club operator. He’s performed here a few times, but a lot less than you’d expect considering it’s… it’s his name above the door and all…” I start to trail off. “... Aw, geez, I’m sorry. I’m rambling on about nothin’.”

Sammy’s grin only widens. “Are you kidding? You’re a regular Farmer’s Almanac, but for, like, jazz factoids. It’s pretty cute, actually!”

Ohmygodohmygodohmygod-

The ticket collector clearing her throat distracts Sammy away from my meltdown. “Oh, we’re up! Got your ticket, Aubrey?”

I extend a shaking hand towards the usher. She lifts an eyebrow at me as she accepts my ticket and rips it in half. I’m unsure if her reaction is because I’m a velociraptor or because of the beet red glow of my otherwise blue cheeks. I only barely catch her informing Sammy and I that our table number is 14. My own voice echoing in my head nearly drowns out all other sound:

He said I’m cute. Oh my God he said I’m cute! AAAAAAAAIIIIIIIEEEEEEEE-

My internal breakdown is interrupted as we pass through the doors to the club. The exterior of the building is deceptively plain compared to the lavish interior; outside, though the canopy and small neon sign inform you of the venue, the average passerby wouldn’t even imagine this level of splendor. The main hall is spacious and elegant, with intricately detailed half-pillars lining the walls. The ceiling, a few feet higher up than an average enclosure but not quite of grand concert hall scale, is coated with purple velvet to reduce echo and maximize the auditory experience for the audience in addition to adding an almost regal feel to the space.

Dozens of tables surround a beautifully intimate stage, one where you could literally reach out and touch the musicians upon it. Of course, such an action would cost you your admittance as the nearby security staff would rapidly bounce you into the alley. A luxurious bar offers all sorts of drinks; several members of the waitstaff already mingle amidst the occupied tables, delivering any sort of imbibement one could imagine to the gathering, thirsty patrons.

My mouth hangs open as I drink in the sight before me, hearing Sammy echo my amazement with another whistle. “Okay, maybe I did underdress. This place is incredible!”

I giggle and step closer to him. “Quit your fretting! Come on, let’s go find our table.”

We work our way through the smattering of tables encircling the stage, briefly passing through a small open section directly in front of the stage. Our assigned seating is adorned with a white card with the number 14 scrawled upon it, resting next to a vase containing a few roses. Sammy rapidly moves behind the chair I was about to sit in, politely pulling it out for me. I give him a smile and a nod as I take my seat, allowing him to nudge it under my posterior before he moves over to his own spot.

He’s a gentleman, too…

I’m given no time to heed the squealing of my inner voice as a waitress approaches our table. An older human woman in a modest purple and black dress, she speaks in a tone I recognize as she nervously sizes me up. “G-good evening! Can I get you… two something to drink?” Her emphasis on the word “two” is joined by her glancing between Sammy and myself.

I try my best to apologetically smile at her. She’s someone who has dealt with dinosaurs treating her badly, and worries that I’ll do the same. I want to assuage her fears, but before I can say anything Sammy throws an arm over the back of his chair, craning his neck to stare at the collection of bottles behind the bar. “Hmm… you got a good spiced rum?”

The waitress offers him a polite nod before turning back to me. “A-and for you, ma’am?”

I hesitate, not having given the question any thought prior to now. Not wishing to make the poor woman more uncomfortable than she already is, I merely echo Sammy’s order. “I’ll take the same, thank you.”

With a smile and a slight bow of her head, the waitress scurries away as quickly as she can without being rude. I watch her go, feeling regretful that I’m causing her such discomfort. Sammy doesn’t let me wallow in my emotions for very long. “You a rum gal? I woulda expected you to go for the wine, or somethin’... I dunno, more lady-like?”

I turn his direction as I raise an eyebrow. “More lady-like, you say?”

He stumbles over his reply as his cheeks redden. “Um… well, I mean… not sayin’ that in a bad way… I just figured-”

My giggling clues him in on my intentions. “You’re an easy one to tease, you know that?” His nose scrunches in reply, but he still smiles before I continue. “Honestly, I’m not much of a drinker. Never got a taste for the stuff.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Same, actually. I mean, I won’t say no to the occasional drink on a special night like tonight, but I don’t keep anythin’ stocked in my apartment.”

Before I can speak up again, the waitress returns with two glasses of bronze-colored liquid, gently placing a co*cktail napkin in front of each of us before setting the glasses upon them. She steps back before asking neither Sammy or I in particular, “... Sixty cents, please.”

Phew. That’s pricey for two glasses of rum. I mean, it’s a higher-class establishment, but still. I reach for my purse, but Sammy holds up his outstretched palm to stop me as he withdraws his wallet. A dollar bill passes from his hand to hers; before she can rummage for the change, Sammy coolly adds, “Keep it.”

Her eyes light up at his generosity and she fervently thanks him before heading off to take another table’s order. His only reply is to hold a small, gentle smile as he takes a sip of his drink, glancing around the establishment as the other patrons who are still filing in. The tables are all nearly full now, with the sounds of small talk and placed orders encircling us on every side.

A thought emerges. It begins gnawing at me, tiny and pestering at first, but rapidly growing in size. I take in the crowd around me. As I do so, sideways glances and nervous halts in conversation occur as my eyes pass over the human patrons. I spot the dimetrodon from earlier, seated at a table by himself in the corner, seeming to pay no mind to the humans around him to steal wary looks in his direction.

We are the anomalies here. We are the odd ones out. Two dinosaurs amidst a sea of humans who tiptoe around us, offering timid smiles and wide berths.

I suddenly feel like I don’t belong here.

“Everything okay, Aubrey? You ain’t touched your drink yet.” Sammy’s gentle voice momentarily breaks me out of the intrusive thoughts. I turn my attention to him, meeting his blue eyes with mine. I want so desperately to wave the sentiment off, act like nothing's bothering me at all and have a pleasant evening of jazz and Sammy’s company. I want to compliment his generosity with the waitress, offering him praise for being such a gentleman so far, despite this not being a date. I want to say so many things, something, anything but what comes tumbling out of my lips:

“... Why aren’t you afraid of me?”

Sammy’s only reply is to blink in confusion. I continue in a hushed tone, having to release eye contact with him to keep forming the words properly without breaking down into a sobbing mess. “Everyone is staring at me. Everyone is afraid of me. The waitress could barely look me in the eyes, she was terrified. I… I don’t belong here. This is a human club, with human music. So… why? Why are you treating me like nothing’s wrong?”

I finally manage to lift my head towards Sammy again. I expect the worst: a scowl, an annoyed eye roll, or worse… the fear that so many other humans show me. But… he offers none of those things. Instead, he only smiles at me before he speaks. “Should I be?”

His question catches me off guard. “... What?”

“Should I be afraid of you?”

My eyes widen. “No! Of course not!”

He offers a shrug to accompany his kind smile. “Well, then, there’s no problem, right?” I’m flabbergasted, unable to find a reply to his words.

He doesn’t let the air hang dead between us for long before he lowers his own gaze, his smile faltering slightly as he lets out a half-hearted chuckle. “Heh. To be totally honest, I’m not sure where I got the stones to approach you yesterday about the tune you were hummin’. That… really isn’t like me. I’m usually a pretty nervous guy, especially around…” He swirls his hands in an all-encompassing gesture. “... well, around dinosaurs like yourself. I’ve had my fair share of bad run-ins. But…” He meets my eyes again. “... you seemed different. On that bus stop bench. You seemed… lonely. Like you needed someone to just say ‘hello’. Someone to share a small laugh with, or just get a quick compliment from.” His eyes take in the room surrounding us. “I certainly didn’t expect it’d end up with me being here. That said…” He smiles at me once more. “... I’m glad I did stop to say ‘hello’ to you. And not just cuz of this show you invited me to!”

My mind spins. His words flow around, drowning out the gnawing self-consciousness. But another half-co*cked thought escapes my mouth. “I-if you hadn’t stopped yesterday… you wouldn’t have had to… that body… and the way those officers treated you…”

He waves a hand dismissively. “More excitement than I normally experience on a Monday night, that’s for sure. But I don’t regret a thing. Sure, it was a pain getting man-handled by those cops, and I def- …” He trails off, his eyes glazing over for a moment as though he just recalled something. I co*ck my head inquisitively, but he quickly shakes away whatever distracted him. “... It’s certainly a hell of a way to meet someone. But… I’m glad I met you, Aubrey. I mean that. Don’t let the way these other folks are looking at ya make you uncomfortable. I’m happy to be here with you. I’m happy you invited me along.”

I bite my lip as I do my best to keep the tears from escaping my eyes. “Th… thank you, Sammy. I’m glad I was able to invite you along, too. Thank you for being such a gentleman.” I reach across the table and place a hand on top of his. He glances down at it before his eyes shoot back up to mine, his cheeks brightening rapidly.

He stammers out a reply. “U-uh! Thanks! You too! W-wait, I mean… uhh…”

My laughter shatters the malaise-filled cloud that I had cast over the table, with Sammy’s laughter soon joining mine. I feel like a total idiot for being such a sourpuss on what’s supposed to be a nice night of jazz and pleasant company, but the weight lifted from my shoulders by his measured and meaningful words means more to me than he can possibly understand right now.

He is a real catch.

We spend the next several minutes making small talk, sharing with one another details about ourselves and our lives. My eyes widen as he shares that he currently works for Sal’s Butcher and Grocery, the very same one I frequent on my way home from work. I question why I’d never seen him there before until he informs me that he works in the dock, loading and unloading trucks every day. If he was a checkout person or bagboy I’d have recognized him, but that single concrete wall at the back of the store kept us from ever meeting before yesterday.

He mentions living in an apartment not far from the grocery store, and his dog named Saxon who he describes as “a big lovable lunk”. Though he doesn’t outright say that he’s single, he doesn’t make mention of a roommate, girlfriend or wife, causing me to silently cheer in my head. He does mention a handful of friends, some work acquaintances and other buddies with whom he plays a weekly poker game. He’s modest about himself, but I get the feeling that he’s not a bad player based on what I’ve gleaned about him so far.

Though he shares plenty with me about himself, he offers me even more opportunity to talk about my life and career. I first fill him in on my profession, apologizing again for having lied about being a full-fledged police officer when I’m in fact just a clerical worker. He waves it off, commending me for being gutsy enough to charge headfirst towards a crime scene in pursuit of justice.

I similarly bring up my living situation, emphasizing that I don’t have any pets but leaving the specifics of my love life up to speculation. As the topic crosses my mind, I feel a twinge of that specter of my past poke at my subconscious, but quickly push it aside. Instead, I smile as I watch the gears turn in Sammy’s head, wondering if he’s trying to solve the same riddle that he presented to me. I round out my brief small talk introduction by mentioning my own social circle. Though I don’t have many women I can call close friends, I cherish the few that I do have and keep us in contact via a book club. They’re a little annoyed that I keep recommending jazz memoirs when it’s my month to suggest a book, but they can deal with it. My turn, my pick.

Throughout all of our talk, Sammy is attentive and positive. He engages in our conversation, asking questions and making corny little jokes when he gets the chance. I don’t get the impression that he’s trying to be charming, but he’s doing a damn good job of it so far. I just hope that I’m not putting him off. I already have to make up for that stupid outburst…

Before we can continue, a figure makes his way onto the stage, earning a brief round of applause from the rapidly shushing crowd. Sammy offers me a smile as he turns toward the stage, but his expression is outdone by the wide grin that overtakes me. I know who this man on stage is. Sammy co*cks a questioning eyebrow at me; I respond by nodding my head toward the fellow in the spotlight.

Though he is undoubtedly a human, the positively diminutive figure seems to share more in common with a compsognathus than a cro magnon. He has no tail or elongated snout, but I’d be surprised if he broke four feet even, and that’s including the tall captain’s hat he wears. He quickly rotates the microphone stand’s height adjuster, an audible clang echoing out as it falls to its lowest setting, one that still requires the lilliputian fellow to stand on tip-toes to reach with his mouth. His voice is understandably higher pitched, but he speaks with authority and bravado:

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the one and only Birdland Nightclub!” He nods as cheers and applause ring out from the crowd. “I am your host, Pee Wee Minkette, and I gotta tell ya, folks. We have an absolutely astounding show for you tonight! Of course, I know you’re all here to see the legendary Miles Cratis Quintet…!” Another round of applause expectedly interrupts him. “... But first! We’ve got a bunch of cool cats who want to serenade you with their locally brewed jams. Give it up for the Brett Boner Four!”

Pee Wee Minkette strides down the small staircase to a mix of applause and confused looks as four gentlemen take to the stage. Their expressions are equal parts nervousness and annoyance as the frontman cradles his trombone in one arm while pulling the mic stand back up to an average person’s height. He clears his throat before addressing the crowd. “Uh, hi. We’re actually the Brett Horner Four. Anyway, I hope you’re all having a good night tonight! This first one is called-”

I don’t catch the name of the song. My fit of snickering overwhelms me to the point where I can hardly breathe. I do my best to stifle the laughter, but like a joke that gets stuck in your head in the middle of a church sermon, the attempts to bottle it up only make it worse. Thankfully, the band either doesn’t notice or they decide to not challenge the velociraptor woman having a conniption at table 14 as they begin their first tune.

I catch sight of Sammy grinning at me, both delighted and perplexed at my uncontrollable laughter. I wave a hand in front of my face, trying desperately to cool myself down. Sucking in several deep breaths to return to a somewhat composed state, I manage to eke out an answer to Sammy’s unasked question, speaking in a hushed tone between occasional giggles so as to not interrupt the local band any worse than I already have.

“H-he… aha… Pee Wee Minkette… he’s such a little bastard! Heehee!”

Sammy’s grin widens but he still doesn’t get the whole picture. “What do you mean? What did he do? I mean… it sounded like he didn’t say that band’s name right-”

“That’s just it! He does that sh*t on purpose! I heard rumors that he purposely mispronounces bands that don’t tip him, and I betcha that’s exactly what happened here!”

Now it’s Sammy’s turn to chuckle quietly to himself. “... What a little prick!”

The two of us quietly continue laughing through the band’s first song, one or the other of us kicking the fit back into gear with a sideways glance or an utterance of the word “boner”. We’re acting like teenagers, totally immature and certainly inappropriate for a venue like this, but I don’t care. I haven’t laughed like this in ages, and I get to share this moment with Sammy.

By the end of the Brett Boner Four’s first tune we’ve managed to compose ourselves. I earn myself a few leers from the patrons seated around us, but my eyes are only for the man positioned next to me right now. He’s handsome, he’s charming, he’s a gentleman and I laugh with him more than I even laugh with my closest friends. At this moment… I’m entirely smitten.

As the frontman introduces the next song and they begin playing, the actual quality of their music begins registering with me. It’s upbeat and exciting. Not exactly expert level music, nowhere near the talent that we should expect to see later, but it’s certainly good for a local band, and getting to play here is probably a big break for them. I even find myself tapping my foot along with their song, enjoying the composition almost as much as the company.

A handful of people from nearby tables begin filing out of their seats and into the empty space in front of the stage, swept up by the energizing tempo of the song as they start dancing with one another. Their gyrations are subtle but fun, with rotating hips and bobbing knees punctuating the smiles and laughter of each dancer and their partner. The band takes note, suddenly putting a bit more gusto into their own performance to encourage the spontaneous movement that’s broken out. It fills me with a twinge of regret that I can’t-

I suddenly see Sammy rise from his seat and extend a hand towards me, a wide smile on his face as he beckons me toward him.

Oh no.

My mouth hangs open for a moment before I shake my head. I try to speak up, but he beckons me again. “Come on, Aubrey! It’ll be fun!”

I feel my cheeks begin to burn. I avert my eyes. “I… I can’t, Sammy.”

“There’s no reason to be shy! Come on!”

“Sammy, no. I can’t.”

He doesn’t relent, stepping closer to me. “Oh, don’t be like that! You’ll be great at-”

I sharply cut him off, my eyes flaring at him. “No!”

His smile instantly falls away and he withdraws his hand. I cover my face in embarrassment as he shifts back to his seat next to me. He speaks in a dejected tone. “... I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pressure ya.”

I lower my hands before replying. “No… no, I’m sorry. I… didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just… I literally can’t dance. My… I have a bad knee…”

His eyes go out of focus for a second as he seems to scan his memories before they shoot open and he brings his hands to his mouth. “Oh my God! I… oh sh*t, the cops said that, didn’t they?! I’m so sorry, I forgot!”

I shake my head. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Sammy.”

He turns away from me, scowling at himself. “Gah. I’m so f*ckin’ stupid, why didn’t I remember that?” He remains rigid for a few moments, not speaking aloud but almost certainly beating himself up internally.

I slowly reach my hand across the table and place it on his arm. Thankfully, he doesn’t recoil away from me, instead looking up at me with remorseful eyes. “Well… you had just been tackled to the ground by those cops. I’m surprised you remembered your name after that!” I offer him a smile which he only reciprocates with a slight puff of air from his nostrils. “... Plus, those same cops called me a lesbian, remember? And that was bullsh*t. They just… happened to be right about my knee.”

His frustration finally cracks as he returns my smile, though it’s sullied with regret. “... Still. I’m sorry for pressuring ya like that. I got… swept up. Thought it’d be fun to dance. I just-”

“You didn’t know. It’s okay.”

With a sigh, he nods to me. We both turn our attention back to the band, their upbeat song offering an awkward backdrop to the sudden shift in mood. I sip at my drink as I silently curse myself for making such a f*cking mess of this night. I was late, I had an emotional outburst of self-consciousness, and now I snapped at Sammy when he was just trying to have a fun dance with me.

I’m blowing it. He’s not gonna want to see me again after this. I… know it’s not a date… but I was hoping…

The band finishes their song, earning another round of applause from both the audience and the tuckered out dancers. After reminding us of their actual name and excusing themselves from the stage, Pee Wee Minkette finds his way in front of the audience again, dropping the mic to his height in similar fashion to before.

“Hey, those kids were great! Lookin’ forward to hearing more from them in the future! But now, the moment I know all of you have been waiting for! One of the biggest names in jazz today, hot off the release of their newest, hottest record, ‘Kind of Blue’, let’s give it up for the Miles Cratis Quintet!”

There’s no mispronunciation of the headliner’s name, and Pee Wee even takes the time to adjust the microphone back up to its original height. As he shuffles off the stage, the air in the room instantly shifts. Uproarious applause and cheers ring out as the legend himself steps onto the stage, followed closely by his bandmates. In his hands he holds a trumpet, the instrument that skyrocketed him to fame and fortune, one with which he is intimately familiar. He pauses for a moment to glance around the audience, but says nothing. Instead, he turns to his bandmates, mutters something, then faces us once more with a calculating look.

From the first notes tapped out on the piano by Bill Ephans in unison with the first double bass strings plucked by Paul Chainers, I know the song. A chill fires up my tail and through my spine as everything else melts away. The first track on Side One of their record, the same tune I woke up to yesterday… the same one I was humming when Sammy approached me:

‘So What’.

The entire crowd is deathly silent, holding their breath and straining to hear every note. No one is here because they don’t want to be. We’ve all gathered to listen to one of the greatest jazz bands on the planet, and they’re playing one of their best songs for us right now. A few moments later, Jimmy Dobb’s gentle drumming joins the fray, offering a smooth as silk backdrop to the instrumental fusion. Shortly thereafter, John Coalmane’s tenor sax speaks up, breathing fresh soul into the already sweltering symphony.

And at long last, Miles Cratis brings the trumpet to his lips, inhaling deeply before he adds his first notes to the mix. It is perfect. Absolutely beautiful. Mesmerizing. Everything I had ever heard through my record player or my radio could not have prepared me for hearing the real deal. My ears strain as they yearn to take in every sound, every playful weave of these five musicians and the culmination of all of their skills in a single, masterful song.

For nine and a half minutes, the world melts away. Every single thing that has ever troubled me fades into oblivion as I’m left only with the music of a jazz genius. My eyes close, shutting out all sensations but the sounds in the air around me. For a moment, I even forget where I am, so wholly absorbed by the melodious marriage of strings and brass that I could have been floating through space and been none the wiser.

One of the most unfortunate truisms of the world is that “all good things must come to an end”, and as it was, eventually the song comes to a close. For a moment’s breath upon its conclusion, pure, unbroken silence fills the space. It is rapidly shattered by the thunderous applause and awe-filled cheers of the crowd, my own joining them as I smile uncontrollably. Miles Cratis replies in the way I expected: a simple, small bow, immediately followed by turning to his bandmates and muttering something else. A moment later, their next song begins, ‘Freddy Freeloader’, the very next track on the same album. It’s their newest record and a huge hit, so it’s no surprise they’d be playing the familiar tracks right off the bat. Though I hope we get to hear some of his earlier tunes tonight, too.

As they spin their magic on stage for a second time, I smile as a factoid pops into my brain. Though Bill Ephans is playing the piano with them tonight, it was technically Wynton Kawly who performed the piano part of the recorded version of Freddy Freeloader. I turn to Sammy, anxious to share this with him before I stop myself.

He doesn’t look at me, instead focusing on the stage. He doesn’t look upset… far from it, in fact, as his finger taps on the table in time with the percussion. But… he’s listening to the music. He’s not interested in my useless trivia right now.

… He’s not interested in me.

I turn back to the stage, still listening to the beautiful tapestry being woven by Miles Cratis and his companions, but a cold, empty gap opens up in my heart. I keep replaying the foolish mistakes I’d made throughout the night, uttering internal blasphemies that I dare not repeat out loud. I’m… not gonna let this ruin my night. I wanted to hear Miles Cratis play, and I’m hearing him play right now.

… So why does it hurt so badly?

My head sinks. I hope and pray that it looks like I’m absorbed by the music, but right now I feel lower than low. I f*cked up the one glimmer of light I had seen in so many months, casting away the kind and gentle human with my self-loathing and bitterness. After tonight, I’ll go back to being alone again. Yes, I’ll always have my records and my book club friends, but… I’ll still be alone.

As the song comes to a close, another round of applause and cheers fills the room, but this time I don’t join in. I’m too wrapped up in my own resentment to even move. I expect to hear another lull followed by another song that I’m not going to be able to enjoy as much as I want to, but instead I hear a voice that I’d not heard as of yet resonate through the stage’s microphone. He speaks calm, reserved words, mumbling slightly past the hint of scratchiness you start to hear from someone who smokes a bit more than they ought to.

“Thank’y all for comin’ out tonight. This next one, feel free t’dance if y’want. ‘Blue on Green’.”

Another moment later, the piano and double bass kick off the hauntingly beautiful and melodic opening to the third track on their same album. I absolutely adore this song, but feel the swelling anger and sadness as that word lurches around in my head again. “Dance”. If only I could, Miles. I want so badly to be able to. I want to hold Sammy in my arms, I want to feel his hands on my hips as… as…

I glance up. Several people have taken up Miles’s offer and have moved into the center of the room, but their dancing is not frenetic or energized. Instead, it is slow and intimate, with partners gently swaying with one another in time with the soulful song.

I turn to Sammy again. Though his focus is still on the stage, he notices my look this time and meets my gaze. He subtly raises an eyebrow as though to wordlessly ask me if everything is okay, but quickly shifts to a look of confusion as I rise from my seat. Stepping around the table, I extend a hand to him, averting my eyes slightly as the rattling of my nerves causes my voice to crack.

“I’d- … like to dance… if you’ll have me.”

Sammy quickly rises to his feet, but doesn’t accept my hand. “A-are you sure? Your- I mean, can you-”

I smile at him. “This is slow enough that I can handle it.”

The shock on his face is replaced by his warm smile, causing my stomach to turn over on itself. My hand quivers as he accepts it, and he slowly leads me to the dance floor. We find a small spot for ourselves before he turns to face me again. His eyes nervously dart down before meeting mine again. I know he’s trying to be polite, but right now I just want to be in his arms. I want to know that I haven’t squandered my chance. I want to know if he feels the same way about me that I do about him.

I step closer to him, waiting for him to make the first touch.

He does so, bringing his hands to rest just above my hips on either side of my frame. I reciprocate by draping my arms over his shoulders, bringing our bodies nearly into contact with one another as we begin gently swaying with the song. My tail slowly wraps itself behind him, startling him slightly as the unfamiliar feathered appendage comes into contact with his back. The thing has a mind of its own most of the time, but this is a conscious effort, both to keep it out of the way of other dancers and to share in this moment every part of me that possibly can.

He glances from the end of my tail back up to me. My snout is inches away from his reddened face, both of us rocking in time with the song. He does not smile and he does not speak, instead wearing an intense expression as though he’s lost in thought. However, his eyes do not wander, focusing only on mine. Wholly absorbed in my gaze, just as much as I am absorbed in his.

For the second time tonight, the world around me melts away. The beauty of Miles Cratis’s music fills my ears, but this time I do not drift alone in the soundscape. I am joined by a man who holds me in his arms. A man who approached me randomly at a bus stop to compliment my humming, only to run with me toward a crime scene and get arrested for his troubles. A man who, despite my unacceptable behavior tonight, has still accepted my dance.

Sammy.

Too soon, the song comes to a close. It’s such a beautiful track on the record and a perfect way to close out Side One. As the crowd applauds the band, Sammy and I remain in one another’s arms for a moment before he smiles at me. “... Th-thank you for the dance, Aubrey.”

I return his smile and take a small step back, removing my hands from his shoulders. “Thank you, Samuel. You’re… a very good dancer.”

He blushes again, scratching the back of his neck. “Aw, I don’t think I’m anythin’ special.”

I disagree.

As we make our way back to our seats, Miles Cratis approaches the microphone again. “Thank’y. We’re gonn’ take a short break, then we got some more songs for ya.” He offers another quick nod to the applause of the crowd before setting his trumpet down and heading over toward the bar. I notice him approach a blonde woman and begin chatting with her; perhaps a lucky gal that caught his eye, who knows?

I turn my attention back to Sammy who gulps down the last little bit of rum that had melded with the remaining ice in his glass. He sets it back on the table, tapping his finger on its rim as he seems to contemplate something. After a moment he finds some words, though they’re not particularly eloquent ones. “Aubrey… would- uhh… I mean… is there- … um… sh*t.”

I extend him a patient smile. “Take your time, Sammy.”

He sighs. “Ah, geez. I’m not great with words is all. Doesn’t help when my nerves are all rattled. I’m… tryin’ to find the right way to ask this.”

My heart nearly flutters out of my throat, but I somehow keep my composure as I coolly respond. “What do you want to ask?”

He looks up at me again, his eyes suddenly filled with resolve. He takes several deep breaths before speaking. “I… know you said this isn’t a date. But… could it be?”

I have no earthly clue how I keep myself from fainting, let alone how I manage to eke out my smarmy reply. “... Could it be what, Sammy?”

“Oh, come on! Could it… could it be a date?”

The sides of my mouth lift in an uncontrollable, giddy smile. “I’d like that very much, Sammy.”

He lets out an immense sigh of relief. “Raptor Christ, why was that so damn hard? Sheesh! I feel like I’m a f*ckin’ teenager again or somethin’.” I can’t help but giggle, knowing the sentiment all too well after how I was feeling earlier today. However, his change in expression makes my laughter die down as he seems to dread what he prepares to say next. “... Aubrey, I’ve really enjoyed tonight. A lot. And… I’d love to go on another date with you, if… if you want to. But…”

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Miles Cratis leading that blonde woman out of the club. I refocus on Sammy as I lean forward. “But what?”

He turns his head away, wrestling with himself internally before steeling his resolve and meeting my eyes again. “... Okay. Cards on the table. I don’t like keeping sh*t like this inside, so I just gotta be forward with it. I’m… a divorcee.” I blink at him which he seems to interpret as judgment. “I’m sorry, that’s just the truth. It was a couple years ago, she’s outta the picture and, well, outta the state too. We was hitched over in Old Jersey, where I grew up. I moved out here after… well, after it all went down.”

“... I thought I heard an Old Jersey accent in there.”

He smirks but presses on. “If… that’s not somethin’ you wanna deal with, I just needed to get it out there right away, be upfront about it. I didn’t want it to come jumping out of the closet like a boogeyman if… if things… I dunno, progressed with us…”

I once again reach across the table and put my hands on top of his. I’m really getting used to the feeling of his hands in mine. “... Sammy. That’s not a problem. I…” My eyes involuntarily cast themselves downward. “... I’m divorced, too.”

Sammy balks at my statement. “... Wait, seriously? But… you’re so young!”

I shoot his balk right back to him. “I’m twenty-four, whaddya mean ‘I’m so young’?”

“I… well, I mean, you are a year younger than me…”

I click my tongue at him. “You dope.” This gets a chuckle out of him. As it dies down, I speak more seriously. “... My… situation wasn’t so long ago. Less than a year. But he’s… out of the picture, too…” Though I’m also not interested in keeping secrets, I’m nowhere near prepared to tell him everything regarding that situation. Another time.

Sammy nods sympathetically. “A couple o’ divorcees, lookin’ to reenter the dating pool again.” His kind eyes linger on mine before he speaks again. “So, how about it?”

I co*ck my head, actually unsure as to his question this time as opposed to the teasing I had done a few moments ago. “How about what?”

“Could I ask you on another date? Ya know, a proper date. Dinner, maybe a movie or somethin’ if you like that sorta thing?”

My cheeks glow even brighter red than his. “... I’d love that, Sammy.”

His smile widens immensely, but before he can speak up again a commotion outside the club distracts us both. A gaggle of people seem to be crowding around the entrance, trying to peer over the top of one another to see what’s going on outside. From the muffled sounds beyond the door, I can only make out shouting.

Sammy rises to his feet, again taking a step forward to posture himself between myself and the crowd. However, before any sort of threat makes itself known, the sound of the microphone stand clattering to its lowered position startles us. Pee Wee Minkette stands before us again, the two members of the Miles Cratis Quintet who are still on stage staring at him in confusion. His voice lacks the performative quality from before, now only carrying with it panic.

“L-ladies and g-gentlemen… there’s… been an incident. I’m sorry… but we have to cancel the rest of the show.”

Now I’m on my feet, wide eyed and bewildered at what he just said. I hear Sammy mutter, “What the hell?” as dozens of other patrons around us echo the confused and angered sentiments. Pee Wee tries to raise his hands to quell the crowd, but realizes his efforts will be in vain unless he elaborates. As he wipes the sweat away from his brow with his handkerchief, he stammers out words that make my heart drop in my chest like a stone:

“... Miles Cratis has been arrested.”

Chapter 6: Pierce

Chapter Text

A thin tendril of smoke rises from the smothered cigar in the ashtray, intertwining with crystals hanging from a chandelier above the table. The posh mahogany-colored leather lining of the booth in the back corner of the restaurant crinkles and squeaks slightly under my scales as I take a seat. The face of Charles Rossi is illuminated on the other side of the booth, both by the small lamp in the center of the round table and by the match he strikes to light up a new stogie.

Though it’s called Santiago’s Bar, the cozy establishment is also a full-featured Italian restaurant with some pretty damn good cuisine on the menu. It brings in decent business, with some evenings seeing plenty of patrons who are ignorant to this place being a frequent haunt for members of the criminal enterprise. Tonight, Charles, Marty and the few restaurant staff who are on the payroll just as much as I am are the only souls present. Well, and me, of course.

Marty does not join me at the executive booth, choosing instead to sit at the bar about three empty tables’ lengths away. Close enough that he can overhear our conversation if he feels inclined to listen in, but given how he reacted in the car and the lack of words exchanged between us since I dumped my used piece in the bay, I don’t think he’ll be sticking his long neck out for me tonight. Not that I need him to, I’ve got this under control.

Charles takes a long drag of his fresh cigar as he sizes me up, keeping his steeled gaze locked firmly on my face, scanning me for several moments before any words are passed between us. His bright purple eyes are his most chromatic element, seeming to clash violently with his gray scales and triplicate horns. His diamond irises flare ever so slightly as he begins piecing the situation together. He is no idiot. The fact that Eggsy didn’t enter the bar with us is more than enough for him to realize that sh*t went wrong.

Beyond the almost imperceptible tell of his eyes, he doesn’t react, wearing a cool, almost contemplative expression as he asks the question that almost doesn’t need asking. “Where’s Egbert?”

I fold my hands in front of me, putting as much of a matter-of-fact tone onto my words as I can. “We ran into some complications. Eggsy had to be retired.”

One of Charles’s eyelids twitches. “What do you mean, ‘retired’?”

“He, uh… he tried to steal Herdster money. All the money we collected today. We chased him down and… well, somethin’ happened to him.” From the corner of my vision, I notice Marty’s tail snap back and forth angrily; though his eyes are elsewhere, he’s acutely aware of our conversation.

The triceratops before me exhales a plume of smoke with his sigh before leaning forward. “This isn’t the time for cute turns of phrase, Pierce. What did you do with Egbert?”

“... I shot him.”

A sickening silence hangs between us, causing me to fidget unconsciously. Sure, I wasn’t anticipating Charles being thrilled by my decision to take matters into my own hands, but did he not hear me when I said Eggsy tried to rob us? I decide to fill the stale air by continuing. “... We found the empty briefcase. He must have stashed-”

“You shot Egbert.” His icy tone cuts me short.

“... Yes. He stole-”

“Without my authorization.”

I can’t help but click my tongue against the roof of my mouth. “Charles, what difference does it make? He didn’t give us back the money so I shot him. So what? He was just a f*cking worthless, two-faced, lying prick of a skinnie.”

I know I’m beginning to outwardly show my irritation, but Charles remains as statuesque as he always does, cold and calculating to a fault. However, his words drip with callous authority. “The difference that it makes, Pierce, is that you acted without my permission. You knew that protocol was for you to come to me first before something like that was done, but you did it anyway.”

I let out a sigh. “Yeah, I might have jumped the gun on the red tape a little, but he was gonna get done in anyway-”

“That wasn’t your call to make.” Charles’s frigid words seem to echo the same as Marty’s from the car ride. “You know for a fact that you should have brought him back here, alive, so that we could deal with him professionally. But instead you, what, gunned him down in the street?”

“It was an alleyway, actually.” His eyes flare at me. I should probably tread a little more carefully with my words.

“And how many people saw you and Marty? Two dinosaurs fleeing a bullet-riddled corpse in an alleyway in broad daylight?”

I shake my head. “Nobody.”

He leans back in disbelief. “Nobody. You sure of that?”

“We were gone before people could even poke their head around the corner of the alley. Marty can back me up on that.” I jab a thumb in my partner’s direction, but he doesn’t turn to face us. Instead, I only see his tail flick angrily again.

“And what about the money? You got that back, at least?”

“... No. He didn’t have it on him, and we had to run before I could find it.”

Charles slowly brings a hand to his head, rubbing his temple with two fingers. He closes his eyes for a moment and exhales before looking back at me again. “... Do you realize what a f*cking mess you’ve made?” I blink in surprise, not recalling the last time I’ve heard my boss curse. “You killed one of our employees in broad daylight. One of our few human employees. The cops are going to be able to ID him, you realize that? Tie him back to the Herdsters? With how many noses we already have sniffing around here, what the f*ck do you think that’s gonna do?”

I raise my hands defensively. “I dumped the piece in the bay. They’ve got nothing to tie it to us-”

He cuts me off again. “If he was gonna be done in, there were cleaner ways to do it.” His words give me pause for a moment, but before I can consider them further he presses on. “You lost the money, and you killed the one person who might have been able to get it back to us without having to scrounge several city blocks for every nook and cranny he coulda stuffed it into.” His eyes flare in my direction. “You were completely out of line today. You already know that you walk on thin ice around here, and taking matters of this gravity into your own hands is wholly unprofessional and unacceptable.” I try to open my mouth to reply, but he speaks with finality before I can utter a single word:

“Consider this strike two.”

The plates on my back go completely rigid. My mouth hangs open, attempting to allow my windpipe and vocal cords the proper egress to protest, but nothing escapes. For several seconds, I don’t even breathe as the weight of the situation begins crushing down on me. My heartbeat quickens and my pupils dilate. I suddenly find myself acutely aware of my surroundings, prepared to defend myself against attack from any angle. In an instant I’m on my feet next to the booth, still staring at Charles but locked in a defensive stance, my tail instinctually soaring back and forth behind me.

However, no attack comes. In stark contrast to my fight or flight response, Charles merely takes another puff of his cigar, staring at me with contempt as he exhales slowly. His lips curl as he speaks again. “Take tomorrow off. There’ll be too much heat here anyways. I’ll talk to some guys and get this mess sorted out.”

He doesn’t break eye contact with me, merely rolling the cigar around in his lips as he waits for my adrenaline to drop and my composure to return to me. It eventually does; as my instincts no longer scream at me to defend myself against a lurking predator, my tail slows and my limbs loosen. Taking in a shaky breath, all I can manage is a nod before I turn toward the exit.

Marty doesn’t say anything to me, merely rising from his barstool and moving in the direction of Charles as I pass him on my way to the door. For a moment, I wish he would have at least given me a sympathetic look, but I don’t even get that. He’s still pissed at me, and based on the cold shoulder I guess he agrees with the judgment I received. I watch Marty sit across from Charles, sending a sharp look over his shoulder before turning to our boss to discuss who knows what.

A second strike.

I shudder as I push open the door leading to the evening air, and not due to coolness; the heat’s barely letting up at all as the sun descends beyond the skyscrapers to the west. No, the chill I feel is entirely psychological. Unlike a batter swinging for the fences and coming up short a second time, this is a threat of an entirely different league.

This is my life. I get a third strike… and I’m out. Literally.

I shake my head, trying desperately to clear it of the swirling thoughts. Panic, rage, confusion, remorse… I just can’t fathom what the f*ck got me into this position. Sure, I mighta overstepped my bounds a little, but seriously? A second strike over a skinnie prick who stole our money? What the f*ck woulda been done differently if I brought him in alive? Charles doesn’t get his hands dirty often, but I wouldn’t have been surprised if he gored Eggsy on the spot for that kind of stunt.

The walk to my car is a miserable one. As much as it hurts knowing that I managed to get myself in deep sh*t tonight, the haunting recollection of my “first strike” grows in the recesses of my mind. I do everything in my power to push the memories down, but they keep clawing their way back up again, invasive and consuming. The same hatred that compelled me to do what I did back then starts causing my blood to boil all over again.

No. I have to get a grip. If I let my temper get the best of me now, it really will be the end of the road. I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, paying no heed to the passersby that have to adjust their course to avoid bumping into me. Closing my eyes, I take several slow, deep breaths, concentrating on the air passing through my nostrils before exiting past my snout. My balled fists gradually uncurl themselves long enough to fish the car keys out of my pocket. Sliding behind the driver’s seat, I ignite the engine and make my way home.

I manage to suppress the encroaching dark thoughts, instead replacing them with an attempt to reason through the present situation. It’s… a bad spot. But not necessarily the end. After all, they didn’t drag me out back of Santiago’s right then and there, which they very well could have if I was being offered an early retirement. Charles ain’t happy with me, of course, and neither is Marty… but I’m not beat yet. Maybe I can still do some damage repair here.

I shake my head. Nothing for it right now. Like Charles said, there’ll be too much heat in that area to go fishing around for the money right now. But first chance I get… I gotta do what I can to make things right.

As I pull my Cadillac into the driveway in front of my home, I take a deep, steadying breath. It was a bad day, but there’s no use worrying the missus about it right now. I’ll be strong for the family, like a man oughta be. Even with my little personal pep talk, the walk from my car up to the front door is an abnormally long one. I take one more draw of fresh air before putting on my best after-work smile and opening the door.

“A little later than I expected, Pierce!” My wife’s voice calls from the kitchen. The smell of roasting vegetables wafts in my direction as Bianca strides toward me, wiping her hands with a towel before offering her usual hug and kiss on the cheek. Before I can even say one word, her smile falls away. “... What’s the matter?”

Damn. Either this woman’s a bloodhound, or I did a sh*t job of concealing my emotions. I try to give an innocent smile. “It’s nothing. How was your day, honey?”

Her suspended eyebrow doesn’t relent. She scans me up and down, possibly looking for a physical clue as to my soured emotional state. I’ve got no blood on my clothes or bruises on my face, so she eventually lets out a small sigh, issuing a command instead of an answer to my question. “Dinner’s just about ready. Call the kids into the dining room, please.”

I try to assuage her concerns with another smile. “No problem, Bianca.” Following one final sideways look, my beautiful but frustratingly astute wife strides back to the kitchen. I sigh, wishing that I had spent more time at the poker tables working on my bluffing face. Guess I’m just a lousy liar. Not the worst trait, but it makes for awkward situations like the one I’m sure I’ll face later.

I do as Bianca asked, announcing dinnertime up the stairs and, hopefully, toward at least one of the kids. Unsurprisingly, Angela rounds the corner from the living room with the echoing sounds of some sort of Western playing on the television following closely behind her. I’m not keen on hearing more gunshots tonight, so I ask her to turn the TV off before joining us at the dinner table. She obeys, and with traces of Russell exiting his bedroom, I traverse the short distance from the entryway to the dining room.

Photographs line the walls of the short hallway, captured snapshots of happiness nestled safely behind glass and frame. Everything from family vacations to simple trips to the park, immortalized in suspended motion, smiles that will never falter or fade in that perfect instant. I linger for a moment, taking in the two dozen or so various scenes. Most feature our children at different ages and different levels of interest in the glinting lens pointed in their direction. To me, it’s those pictures where they weren’t even aware of the camera that make for the most heartwarming memories.

The delicious smell of delectable fruits and roasted vegetables snaps me out of my nostalgic trance, beckoning me to my open seat at the head of the freshly set table. Bianca brings forth the final dish to complete the dinner spread, a slightly steaming casserole of broccoli, carrots and cauliflower. I fight off the desire to jam the serving spoon straight into the tray, instead extending my hands to the son and daughter seated on my left and right. They take my hand in theirs, and as Bianca finds her seat and completes the circle, we bow our heads and say grace.

Conversation is pleasant, but stale. I don’t mention my day, instead opting to listen to Russell regale us with the adventure he went on with his friends, a bike ride across the neighborhood culminating in a frenzied chase for frogs near the storm drains. Though I see Bianca’s eyebrows raise disapprovingly, she doesn’t scold our son; we both know he’s smart enough to be safe, even when playing around spots like that. Angela’s day requires much less verbosity as she proffers the usual less-than-five word answers to any inquiries about her time with her mother. I do hope that she’ll come out of her shell and be a little less shy and withdrawn once she grows up.

Occasionally, Bianca steals glances at me. They strike me as less romantic and more inquisitive, as though she’s waiting for me to offer up some explanation as to my mood upon returning home. When I don’t give one, her expression subtly shifts to worry. The kids don’t notice it, haven’t had a reason to yet, but I’ve known her long enough to tell when her gears are turning. I tap my fingers on the table’s surface, considering my next move carefully.

I was told I can’t come in tomorrow. And I sure as hell don’t want to sit around the house moping about the sorry state of my professional life. My mind wanders once more to the smiling moments adorning the walls and shelves of our home. After a moment, as the children reach the last few forkfuls of their meals, I clear my throat.

“... What do you kids say to a trip to the beach tomorrow?”

They both freeze in place, a piece of broccoli suspended in air on its journey toward Russell’s mouth. Their wide eyes give way to wider smiles, and their stunned silence is replaced with enthusiastic cheering.

Despite her normally sleepy demeanor, Angela is the first to get a cohesive word out. “The beach! Wow! Can we get ice cream while we’re there?!”

I nod with a smile. “Don’t see why not.”

Russell pipes up next. “Do you think I can invite Sebastian, too?”

“Sure, give him a phone call once we’re done with dinner.”

The two of them bounce excitedly on their seats as they shovel the remainder of their food away. They clearly agree with my sudden suggestion, but Bianca raises an eyebrow at me from across the table. She does not protest, having no reason to deflate the children by rebuffing my offer. Hell, she might even take a dip in the cool ocean water herself with how hot it’s been the past several days. Still… this particular diversion tactic obviously won’t work to quell her concern about me.

With dinner concluded and the table cleared, the excitement moves into the living room. The chatter and anticipation of Russell and Angela finally give way to enthralled silence as another cool-handed lawman dispenses his own brand of justice on the outlaws and desperados of the wild west. While the make-believe gunfire emanating from the television’s speakers rattled my nerves earlier, I find myself strangely calmed by the wooden acting and over-the-top stunt work on the boob tube this evening.

After a few hours of vegging out, the wife declares it bedtime for the household, earning protestation from the children. “Just one more episode,” they whimper, but both know full well that bargaining of this nature will never work with their mother. She turns off the television to the sound of their groans and shoos them both upstairs. I give her a smile before following the kids to the second floor; with all the excitement of today, I’m ready to get some shut-eye myself.

I take a seat on the edge of our bed and peel the socks from my feet, flexing my tendons and wiggling my toes in response to the cool air that now has free access to those lowest digits. Before I can disrobe further, the bedroom door slowly closes behind Bianca. She stands wordless and monolithic, awaiting the explanation she is owed. I don’t meet her eyes, opting to let out a muted sigh as I gather my thoughts. I knew I wouldn’t be able to end the night without spilling the beans, but somehow I didn’t prepare for the moment of truth.

For only a second, the idea of trying to downplay the situation crosses my mind. I had already fibbed by telling Bianca nothing was wrong when I got home, and she didn’t believe me then. Her posture and patience tell me that she won’t believe it now, either. I only see one way to proceed.

“... I shot a guy today. A… coworker, I suppose. He worked for the Herdsters and he was assigned to help Marty and I with our pick-ups. He tried to steal the money we collected. We chased him down in an alley and I shot him.”

Bianca doesn’t react. She already knows the nature of my work and understands that sometimes a man has to do what he has to in order to provide for his family. She loves me and the kids too much to raise a fuss over me exercising the more harsh brand of justice that my organization has to enforce from time to time.

She also knows there’s more to the story than what I’m letting on. Something as simple as what I’ve said so far wouldn’t have me rattled like I am. She waits patiently for me to continue.

I take a deep breath before doing so. “Charles wasn’t happy about it. Said I was out of line taking matters into my own hands, said I shoulda brought the skinnie weasel to him.” I run a trembling hand through my hair. “... I got a second strike.”

Only now does my wife make a noise, emitting a small gasp as a hand comes to her mouth. She understands as well as I do what this means. I finally find the strength to bring my eyes up to meet hers, doing everything in my power to keep my voice from quivering as I speak. “A second f*cking strike, over a goddamn skinnie. And I wouldn’t have even gotten the first one if Francisco… if he… god…”

In two strides Bianca is across the room, wrapping her arms around my head and pulling me toward her bosom. I’m powerless to do anything but bite my lip as the memories surge over me, calling forth the same pain, fury and hopelessness I felt all those months ago. I sharply inhale, bringing in as much oxygen as I can past the fabric of Bianca’s shirt. She responds by stroking the back of my head and shushing me, keeping me nestled between her breasts.

I hate showing weakness like this. But if it has to be done in front of anyone, the woman who pledged herself to me in marriage and brought our children into the world is an acceptable option.

Though it feels longer, it only takes me about half a minute to calm down and recompose myself. Bianca leans back to meet my eyes before speaking. “I’m sorry this happened to you, Pierce. You didn’t deserve that first strike, and you sure as hell don’t deserve this second one. The only thing you can do now is be as careful as you possibly can. Don’t make waves. Don’t do anything else that’ll even make Charles look at you funny. Keep your head down and this’ll blow over.” She averts her gaze. “I… I don’t want anything to happen to you. Me… the kids… we need you, Pierce.”

Now it’s her turn to fight back her emotions, but I don’t waste a moment in coming to her aid. I’m on my feet in a flash, wrapping my arms around her and bringing her as close to me as I can as she shudders. “I’m not going anywhere, Bianca. I’d fight off a hundred men to be with you.” She grips the front of my shirt, squeezing herself into me to absorb my words and warmth. “I love you, Bee.”

She meets my eyes again, blinking away the budding droplets. The nickname came about early in our courtship, originally being met with protestation. She was, after all, a proud woman with a respectable name, and the louse that had taken her on a couple dates hadn’t earned the right to bestow a contemptible single-syllabic pet name to her. It took several more months and a drop to one knee with a diamond in hand for her to finally warm up to the idea of it.

“I love you, too, Pierce.” Her cheeks redden ever so slightly, betraying her next move as she brings her lips to my own. She’s the woman who accepted an awkward teenager who got rejected in the draft for the second world war, watching as his older brother traveled over the ocean in a C-47 to never return home. She’s the woman who accepted my hand in marriage, beauty beyond my comprehension enveloped in a radiant white dress. She’s the woman who didn’t bat an eye the first time I came home after killing a man, knowing that the world is full of bad people and believing that I’m one of the good ones worth loving.

I’ll prove her right. I’ll survive… for her… for the kids… for a world that deserves good people like us.

I’ll survive.

—

“- so there he is, right, this big f*cker of a baryonyx, staring down his f*ckin’ runway of a snout at me. Again he says, in his stupid Southie accent: ‘fork over yer lunch money or yer dead!’ O’course, I could barely hear the guy with how bad he rung my bell. There were about three of him spinnin’ around one anotha when I tried to look up at his ugly mug.” He shot his eyes in my direction before jabbing a thumb at me, his signature grin plastered on his face. “Then this beefy f*cker’s silhouette shows up behind the baryonyx prick. Casts a shadow over him like a f*ckin’ mountain range at sunset. The asshole bully barely has time to react before Pierce wraps his f*ckin’ hands around the guy’s mouth and starts swinging him around like a baseball bat! And that’s when I learned my big brother is Babe-f*ckin’-Tooth!”

Franky’s wild pantomiming of a batter swinging for the fences elicited another round of laughter from the enraptured crowd of coworkers and bar employees he had drawn. He was always a lot more talented than I was when it came to making folks laugh and feel comfortable. I still felt the need to critique his storytelling: “That baryonyx wasn’t that big. Hence me being able to toss him around like a rag doll.”

My baby brother shot me another toothy grin. “Hey, I’m the one telling the story here, Pierce! Besides, you should be flattered that I didn’t include the part where his two goon buddies blackened your eye!”

“And I’m pretty sure I sent one of them to the hospital.” More laughter ushered in more clinking glassware and more downed liquor. It was another enjoyable night after a successful day at the office, and I watched with pride as Franky began spinning another yarn to entertain everyone around us. He was doing good work, not that I was worried that he’d be a good worker. He was a brilliant fella, and charismatic as all get-out. I knew he’d fit right in with the Herdster team.

My smile faltered slightly as I glanced over at Charles in his usual corner booth, chomping on the familiar cigar he always had between his lips after the work day was done. He was a professional man, and professional men save their vices for when they’re off the clock. He didn’t smile back at me, instead merely taking in the sight of our post-work carousing with the authority of a boss who only mingles with the peons from time to time. Again, he was a professional man.

Of course, things with Franky hadn’t gone perfectly. There were a few shifts where he had to punch out early on account of being too hung over to operate properly. We managed to hand-wave it as a stomach bug or a nasty migraine, but I warned him with increasing severity that a new guy only gets so many sick days before the boss starts looking real close as to the reason for said sick days. And Charles wasn’t the kind of guy who would miss the signs of a young man with an alcohol problem for very long.

At least it had been a few weeks without incident. Franky was going on six months with the team, and was being assigned more responsibility every week. I just needed to keep being the big brother I needed to be to ensure he didn’t f*ck up this opportunity I helped him get.

“Pierce!” His voice brought me back to the moment and I turned his way in acknowledgement. “What was the name of that dish ma always used to make? You know the one, with the flatbread and caramelized onions?”

“ Flammekueche, or tarte flambée. It was one of her best dishes.”

One of the fellas behind the bar who normally works the kitchen piped up. “Ay, don’t dat usually got bacon on it?”

Franky rolled his eyes at the tyrannosaurus. “Not everythin’ has to have meat on it, ya f*ckin’ carnivore. Try eatin’ a salad once in a while!” More laughter, including from the t-rex that was just chided by the young blowhard in control of the conversation. I had to hand it to him, those same words out of a less charming guy would have earned a punch in the snout, but somehow he managed to pull off these social interactions with aplomb.

He shot back the last swig of bourbon in his glass before tapping the rim and nodding at the bartender. However, I took a step forward and put my hand on his shoulder. “We should probably get rolling, buddy. Still gotta work tomorrow.”

Now it was my turn to catch an eye-roll. “Whaddya mean, Pierce? The night’s still young!”

The slight slur in his words told me I needed to remain resolute in my stance. “Let’s call it a night. We gotta make up some time on our routes, so we’ll have to be fresh come morning.”

With an exaggerated sigh and a mighty slump of his shoulders, Franky relented. “Aaaalright. Well, fellas, my grouch-ass of a brother says the fun’s done, so I guess I’ll see you chuckef*cks tomorrow!” A round of goodbyes saw him out of his seat and venturing into the cool night air with me. He nudged me with an elbow as he lit up a fresh cigarette tucked between his lips, knowing I wouldn’t allow him to have one in my car. “I think they’re finally starting to warm up to me a bit!”

I smirked. “Making friends wasn’t ever gonna be a problem for you, Franky. Though, I did notice Charles lookin’ our way with a bit of disapproval.”

“Pfft. That old sobersides probably has a fourth horn growing right between his buttcheeks.” His turn of phrase made me snort out a laugh that I quickly stifled as I shot a glance over my shoulder toward the door. Thankfully, Charles hadn’t sprung into existence there.

“Are you f*ckin’ crazy? If there’s anyone you don’t joke about, it’s Charles. He once-”

“Yeah, yeah. Broke a bottle over some schmuck who called him Charlie. I heard the story, and I ain’t afraid of that gray trike.”

“If you were smart, you would be. At least enough to know you don’t f*ck with him like that.”

He surrendered the point as he drew down the last of his cigarette before stamping it out on the pavement outside my car’s passenger door. With a roar of the engine, we began the short trek back to his home.

Silence was rare between us, mostly due to Franky’s efforts. He was a regular chatterbox, not just with guys pourin’ him drinks but with me and our other siblings, too. He was the only one who could get ma to smile at Gabriel’s funeral. O’course, nobody was in a smiling mood after the crate and folded flag showed up, but Franky’s just the kind of guy to offer his wit and charm as his form of comfort and love. That was a lot of years ago, though, and these days…

“Franky… you been by to see ma recently?” My words filled the void between us, earning a slow turn of my kid brother’s head. He stared at me as though he didn’t believe what came out of my mouth for a moment before turning back toward the window. I cleared my throat before continuing. “You brought up her flammekueche back at the bar, so I thought she mighta been on your mind.” More quiet. “... I thought it might be good for your wife to meet her before-”

“No.”

I blinked in surprise at the curtness of his response. “No?”

“No. I ain’t been by to see her.”

“... Why not? You know she’s sick. She probably doesn’t have much-”

“I said no. I don’t want to see her.”

I sighed. “Francisco, you-”

“What the f*ck is your problem, Pierce?! I said no, why don’t you f*ckin’ drop it?!” His eyes were ablaze, wordlessly threatening me if I dare continue pushing the subject.

I pushed the subject. “What the f*ck is your problem, huh? Just because she’s sick, you don’t wanna see her? What kind of son are you?”

He began shouting. “I don’t wanna SEE her because she don’t even f*ckin’ KNOW who I AM! She lays there like a f*ckin’ vegetable, and when she DOES have her eyes open, she don’t even RECOGNIZE ME! What f*ckin’ good is it gonna do for me to visit her, huh?! Wastin’ my f*ckin’ time!”

“Raptor Christ, Franky. You’re acting like she’s already dead. I’m not telling you to visit dad’s gravestone, I’m telling you that you need-”

“Pull over the car.”

I paused in disbelief. “... What?”

“Pull over the car, now.”

I slowed the car before bringing it to the side of the road. The moment the concrete below us wasn’t soaring by at a high speed, Franky tossed open the door and stomped out of the vehicle. I threw the parking brake before climbing out of the car myself to call after him over its roof. However, I stopped myself short as I stared in disbelief at his destination.

He was heading straight toward a liquor store.

I groan. “Are you f*cking serious, Franky?”

He spun around, backpedaling as he spoke with an unfitting smile on his lips. “I ran outta some stuff at home! Gotta make a quick pit stop.”

I was exasperated. “We have to work tomorrow.”

A disingenuous chuckle. “Ahhh, it ain’t for tonight. ‘Sides, the missus wouldn’t let me drink this late!” He winked before spinning on his heel again and strolling through the door as though he hadn’t a care in the world.

I could only stare at the closing portal behind him, a slurry of frustration and disappointment swirling in my stomach. I tried to tell him in the past that his drinking is bordering on a problem, maybe even turning into one given his sick days and frequent hangovers. But I was only ever met with hand-waves and disregarding remarks. Franky knew what was best for Franky, of course. Why the f*ck would his older brother or any of his other brothers and sisters know better than him, after all? Not like he was the youngest of seven, with his five living siblings all constantly worrying about his stupidity and recklessness with alcohol. Hell, he had his license revoked for driving under the influence, and ended up in the hospital on two separate occasions because of this bullsh*t. But no. A “pit stop” to the liquor store, past midnight, on a work night. That’s the ticket, Franky.

I climbed into the car, closing the door behind myself dejectedly. Part of the reason I even got him this job was because I thought it might help clean him up. If nothing else, I’d have my eyes on him and could be an example for how to be a professional and not depend on bourbon and gin for emotional support. Hell, he had a kid on the way. Alcohol wasn’t the answer to his problems. It wasn’t the answer to the stress of life, nor to the pain of losing dad last year and with ma probably following him home soon.

Franky needs help. My baby brother needs help, and he needs it soon. Or else…

Or else…

…

A gentle hand pulls me from my slumber, and an angelic voice ushers my consciousness back to the realm of the living.

“Pierce, honey. Wake up. You promised the kids you’d take them to the beach, remember?”

I pull myself up on my elbows, giving Bianca the best attention I can in my groggy, half-asleep state. “Morning, Bee. I’ll be out of bed in-” A yawn interrupts me. “... in a second.”

She strokes my shoulder and plants a kiss on my cheek before stepping away. She’s already out of bed and dressed, probably has breakfast cooking as we speak. As she takes a seat at her bureau to apply a bit more makeup, she steals a glance in my direction. Another smile betrays her feelings.

As a couple that have been married for thirteen years, opportunities to express our love to one another physically become much less commonplace. It’s difficult to schedule intimacy when you’ve got two kids to worry about, and age brings with it a bit more exhaustion and lowered libido from one or both members of the relationship.

But last night…

I can’t help but return Bianca’s smile as I recall the way she passionately kissed me, the way she finished peeling my work clothes away, the way she offered her love and her comfort and her body to me. We kept things quiet; you have to when you’ve got two kids in the house only a door away, but our passion for one another blazed as fiercely as it did when we were first married. She sighed and gasped as I made love to her, and she whispered her love to me as we fell asleep in one another’s arms.

Some of the fellas at the office complain about their wives not putting out anymore. I can’t relate.

I slide myself out from under the sheets, feeling a few joints pop and muscles wrench as I do. As glad as I am that Bianca and I can still express our love to one another physically… it does take a bit of a physical toll on my thirty-four-year-old bones. With a stretch and a bend, I’m on my feet and on my way toward the master bathroom for my morning rituals.

The house is alight with joy and excitement; both Russell and Angela can barely contain their delighted laughter as they scramble about collecting their snorkels and beach balls. Even Bianca gets swept up in the mood, humming a tune to herself as she packs our picnic lunch. Before long, we gather everything we need for an enjoyable day at the beach, swimsuits included, and pile into my Cadillac.

The arid skies greet us once more as we collect our provisions from the parked car and travel to the beachfront. This particular location was about an hour drive, far enough from the city proper to not risk swimming into sewage or stepping on broken glass or spent pieces. Though, it appears we weren’t the only family to have an idea like this today. Despite being a Tuesday, finding a blank patch of sand for us to set our beach towels and parasol proves difficult. Dozens of other families jockey for position, but before long we find an adequate spot for ourselves.

Glancing momentarily to Bianca and I for permission, our nod of approval sends both Russell and Angela soaring toward the water, with my eldest blowing air into a multicolored inflatable ball as he runs. His friend Sebastian wasn’t available today, but he rapidly kicks up conversation with some other nearby boys around his age, utilizing the beach ball as an icebreaker. Angela squeals in delight as her feet make contact with the lapping waves of the ocean; she skitters to a halt before taking a deep breath and plunging herself into the water. Only her tail is visible as she scours the shallows for trinkets.

I wear a contented smile as I lean back in my folding chair, keeping a calm but vigilant eye on the kids. My attention is captured momentarily as Bianca hands me a cold can of soda. I graciously accept before pushing the claw of my thumb through its top. She plops down next to me atop a blanket with a beverage of her own, relaxing under the shade of our beach umbrella. After a moment, she speaks up.

“Will you be going back in to work tomorrow?”

I don’t look her way, opting to keep watching the children play. “Yeah, I think so.”

“... What do you plan to do?”

My smile falters slightly. “Well, you suggested last night that I keep my head down. That’s probably a safe bet.”

A small puff of air from her nostrils bids me to turn her direction. A notable frown rests on her lips. “I mean, what do you plan to do after that? How are you gonna proceed?”

I slide the tip of my claw around the rim of my soda can, eliciting a faint, tinny scraping noise as I think. I had given it some thought myself, but haven’t been forced to articulate it until now. When my words come, they are clumsy. “I… can’t get a third strike. We both know that. But I… well, I can’t just quit. I’m in too deep with the organization. Seen too much. I’ll either retire an old man who’s done everything he needed to for the Herdsters until my knees knock together and I can’t chew my food… or I’ll retire in a bodybag.”

My choice of words was poor, causing Bianca to gasp before scowling at me. “You ain’t retiring in no bodybag, Pierce! I won’t accept it.”

I shrug. “Well, that leaves the former. I have to do my job, and I have to do it right. I can’t… slip up. Not again.” An involuntary sigh escapes my lips.

“Pierce, what happened wasn’t your fault. With your brother… with Francisco… that wasn’t your fault. And what you did was completely justified. Charles was-” My eyes snap toward Bianca at the mention of his name. She hesitates for a moment before lifting her head defiantly. “... Charles should have known that you would do what you did. There was no other way around it. And for him to punish you for it…” A click of her tongue concludes her sentiment.

I remain silent for a moment, only turning to bring my watchful gaze upon the kids once more. Russell is surrounded by a trio of other dinosaur boys, waist deep in waves as they bounce the air-filled multichromatic sphere between themselves, punctuating each lunge and dive with laughter. Even Angela, shy and reserved, beams a smile at another young girl to whom she shows off her small handful of seashells.

Bianca rests a hand on my shoulder before continuing. “You’ve put in a lot of years with the Herdsters and you’ve been doing good work. Charles obviously doesn’t see that.” She gingerly squeezes her fingers, causing me to turn in her direction again. She meets my eyes with a level of sternness not typical for her. “... You could do Charles’s job better than he could.”

I scoff. “Heh. Yeah. Way things are goin’ for me, I doubt that promotion is coming any sooner than the next extinction event.”

She doesn’t reply, instead only holding her gaze. My brow involuntarily furrows, but before my mouth can open to question her, Angela comes trotting in our direction, holding forth her chitinous bounty. Bianca turns to our daughter with a beaming smile, showering the little girl in praise. I join in on the adulation when she displays her treasures to me.

The rest of the day goes by quickly, with Bianca and I joining the kids in the water, enjoying its cool temperature amidst the sweltering sunbeams. Our lunch is refreshing and delicious, and, as Angela requested, we make a stop at the nearby ice cream stand for an afternoon treat. Around four o’clock, my announcement of the conclusion of today’s festivities is met with protestation from both children. Their grumbling quickly turns to quiet breathing as they both sleep peacefully in the backseat of the car the entire way home.

The topic of Charles doesn’t come up again for the rest of the day. At least… not out loud.

—

Marty waits for me in his usual spot, standing near the entrance to the parking garage. His neck cranes around to allow his eyes to meet mine as I pass through the metal door and into the building proper. Though he offers me a smile, it feels less genuine than normal.

“Morning, Pierce.” We begin our short walk toward Charles’s office.

“Heya Marty. How, uh… how’d things go yesterday?”

He shrugs. “Boring day. They had me hang around here in the office in case they needed me for anything. They didn’t. Kicked the hell out of the paper’s crossword puzzle, though.”

I try to smile, but still feel a pit in my gut. All there is to do is try to clear the air. “... Look, Marty. I’m sorry I caused problems. Especially for you. You didn’t deserve trouble, not for my mistake.”

He stops and turns to face me. At first, his raised eyebrow communicates apprehension toward my words. However, after analyzing me for a moment, he averts his gaze and sighs. “I told you it wasn’t the right move, Pierce.”

“I know. I shoulda listened to you, and I’m sorry.”

His eyes flick in my direction again. A small smile tugs at his lips. “... I mean, I got in a lot less trouble than you did. But… thanks, Pierce.” He taps my shoulder with his knuckles in a show of good faith. “Just… be careful, buddy. From now on. You really gotta tow the line.”

I nod.

His smile widens into the one I’ve known for the past few years, genuine and warm. “Believe it or not, I like workin’ with ya. And I care about ya. Despite the humongous pain in the ass you are sometimes.”

I can’t help but chuckle. “Alright, you goose-necked bastard. Let’s go. Gettin’ all mushy on me and then insulting me like this.”

He delivers a few more playful jabs at my ego that I take in stride as we make our way to our destination. Pushing open the door to Charles’s chambers, we both quiet down as we step through the entryway and find our seats across from him. Our boss doesn’t keep a standard office, instead preferring to utilize one of the sublevel conference rooms as a semi-permanent headquarters. A coworker once snickered to a few others in the office that Charles did this to sit behind a great big “desk”, as a sort of intimidation tactic.

That coworker didn’t work for us much longer.

The gray triceratops glances up from his paperwork to acknowledge the two of us as we take our seats across from him, separated by a massive expanse of oak. He sets his pen down and folds his hands on the table before speaking. “Good morning Martin. Pierce. You’ll be handling the south side today, businesses around Pelagic Park. Start with a ten block radius, if you can get more done, wonderful.”

He offers his typical smile and nods toward the door before returning to his pen. Marty shoots a sideways glance at me, silently acknowledging the curtness of our boss. With a nearly imperceptible shrug, he gingerly claps his hands to his knees and rises from his seat.

I linger for a moment, staring at Charles. He said nothing about yesterday, whether they had to do any work to clean up the “mess” that I made. He barely even acknowledged my existence, instead plastering on a sickening facade of apathy and ignorance. He acts… normal. As though he didn’t effectively threaten my life just two nights prior.

My eye twitches and my lip curls, but I quickly stifle the emotions, choosing instead to join Marty in egress. Somewhere in the back of my mind, the phantom of Bianca’s voice finds purchase:

“You could do Charles’s job better than he could.”

The day drags on at a sickening pace. We encounter no difficulties; the owners of the stores we visit are cordial and accommodating, producing their owed dues without hassle. Marty makes pleasant chatter in the car, and I respond as best as I’m able, but my mind continues to wander.

Why aren’t I in a higher ranking position yet? If I was managing other Herdsters instead of doing this grunt footwork, I never would have had to do Eggsy in. Sure, I had originally thought he was being trained up to replace me, but even if that was the case he proved himself to be untrustworthy. What’s to say someone else can’t replace me? Someone that’s actually as dependable as I am?

I deserve to be further along, further up the ladder. I’ve broken my back for the Herdsters, and what do I have to show for it? Two strikes. The threat that one more mistake will be the end of me. And that doesn’t even have to be a legitimate f*ck-up on my part, just something Charles decides is a big enough issue to send me to pasture. Am I gonna spend the rest of my days running errands for an ungrateful boss who holds my fate on a fragile string?

The wheels turn, but at a slow and calculating pace. Before anything else happens, I need to make up for the disaster that was two days ago. I need to prove not to Charles but to the Herdsters as a whole that I can be trusted to handle something as simple as collecting dues from the neighborhood.

Marty and I pull up outside of Santiago’s Bar around five forty-five. He begins climbing out of the car, but pauses when I don’t turn off the engine. “You coming in, Pierce?”

I shake my head. “Not tonight, Marty. You go ahead and run the money in for Charles and give him our report. I need to take care of something.”

Marty raises an eyebrow at me. “... Anything you need help with?”

“No, I got it. You have a good night, I’ll see you again tomorrow.”

He nods before gripping the stuffed envelopes from within the dash and exiting the car. I watch him enter Santiago’s; not that I don’t trust him, rather I keep an eye on him to ensure an errant junkie doesn’t leap out of an alley and try to stick him up. After he safely passes through the front door, I throw on my signal before performing a U-turn.

Several minutes later, I find myself in front of the same alleyway that caused me so much trouble. The remnants of police tape lazily flutter in the near undetectable breeze, one which offers no comfort against the stagnant summer heat. I briefly glance around, seeing signs of neither cop nor pedestrian. The scene where a man was shot dead, so quickly abandoned, a victim to the apathy of a city too gargantuan to worry about its citizens or their fates for more than twenty-four hours.

I don’t need to crouch to get past the tape; it’s already split and mostly absent, so nothing prevents me from entering the alley. A blemished patch of discoloration in roughly the outline of a seated man is traced into the brick exterior of one of the walls. The same weathering runs down the pavement a short distance before abruptly ending. Looks like the city’s cleanup crew went over it quickly with a power washer, but anything more than a passing glance betrays the grisly aftermath still visible here.

My eyes begin scanning the piles of garbage. They appear largely undisturbed, though a few were likely picked through by the police for potential evidence. Neither Marty nor I left anything behind; one of the perks of using a revolver is not having to dig around for bullet casings, unless I get into a situation where I have to fire more than six shots. And in a situation like that, I doubt I’m too concerned about retrieving bullet casings.

My lip curls as I realize what I’m going to have to do. Eggsy hid the money, and he hid it somewhere very close to here. It could be in these piles of garbage next to him, or it could be stuffed into a sewer grate or drainage pipe. No matter how you slice it, I’m gonna have to get my hands dirty to find this-

Footsteps. My plates stand on end as the echoes of footfalls approach from around the alley’s bend, coming from the opposite direction of me. I move as silently as I can to press my back against the wall, concealing myself from their peripheral vision long enough for me to figure out who the f*ck this is. If it’s some passerby taking a shortcut, I can just pretend I’m fishing for a pack of cigarettes I don’t have on me. If it’s a cop… I might have to deck ‘em in the face and hope I jostle his noggin well enough that he don’t remember me when he comes to. Either way… I didn’t want company.

The footsteps grow louder. I do my best to look relaxed, but coil my muscles in case I need to lunge. After several agonizing seconds, the trespasser comes into view. A flat cap rests upon the head of a human, slightly messy tufts of short brown hair poking from under its rim. His clothes are well worn but plain; blue collar rather than white, I don’t figure this guy as a lost banker. He intently stares into the corner of the alley, toward an alcove packed full with trash, before seeming to remember that another entrance connects to this place. He peers over his shoulder and nearly flies out of his shoes when his eyes come to rest on me.

His… blue eyes. Eyes… that I’ve seen before. Only two days before, in fact.

The skinnie from Sal’s Butcher and Grocery. The one that Sal Fontana himself entrusted with delivering me the envelope with Sal’s dues.

A single stride is all it takes to close the distance between us. He stares up at me, wide-eyed and mouth agape, much like he did when I first “met” him. My words rumble past my snarling teeth.

“What the f*ck are you doing here, skinnie?”

Chapter 7: Samuel

Chapter Text

Well, this is some rotten luck.

I desperately try to suck oxygen into my lungs as I crumple to the pavement, having all the wind violently expelled from my torso by the titanic fist that just got done getting acquainted with my stomach. My insides make sounds they aren’t supposed to make, crunches and gurgles informing me that my organs are reorganizing themselves. I attempt to move my limbs, but they involuntarily squeeze inward, trying desperately to protect what remains of my vital parts from further onslaught.

The irony of ending up on my ass in this exact same alleyway twice in the span of forty-eight hours isn’t lost on me. Last time it was due to a well-executed tackle by a defensive line of police officers. As painful as that was, and as sh*tty as it was to get carted into the station after being tenderized, I’d honestly say I preferred that treatment. Despite how racist some cops can be, I didn’t really fear that my life might end at their hands. But now…

I probably won’t be so fortunate.

The juggernaut of a stegosaurus looms over me, his face shrouded in black shadows as the waning sun sinks below the horizon of glass and steel at his back. He’s the same stegosaurus I handed Sal’s envelope to two days ago… and now, based on him coincidentally being in this alley, I’m guessing he’s the one that shot and killed that fella just a few feet away from where I’m laying.

His fist uncurls before he reaches down to seize the front of my shirt, the serrated claws attached to the ends of his fingers stabbing through its fabric and scraping against my flesh. With little effort, he hoists me into the air, narrowing his eyes as I keep gasping for air that just won’t settle in my lungs. He brings my face inches away from his own before speaking.

“I said, what the f*ck are you doing here, skinnie?” He sneers at me before releasing his grip, allowing me to crumple to my knees in my continuing pursuit of not suffocating. “I recognize you. You were there at Sal’s. The mangy mutt that Sal asked to deliver his dues.” He pauses. “Guess that means you probably recognize me, too. Hence your… stunned silence.”

He begins pacing the alley, not removing his eyes from me as my composure slowly returns and the horrifying pain in my abdomen is numbed by the adrenaline. He continues. “Of course, the real mystery here is why you’d come bumbling down this particular alleyway. You just unlucky? You live down the street and just happened to be taking a shortcut on your way home after work?” A click of his tongue foretells his disbelief of this posited scenario. “They say it’s a small world… but it ain’t that small. Nah, you were lookin’ for somethin’. And what you were lookin’ for… I think I have an idea of what it was.”

I can finally speak, though my voice is cracked and my breathing is still labored. “I… I do live… near here… I was just… there’s been a mistake-”

“Bullsh*t, skinnie. Don’t f*ckin’ lie to me. Were you in cahoots with Eggsy the whole way? I bet he planned to pass the money off to you that night, you little scumbag.” Eggsy… was that the name of the man that died in this alley? A wicked grin spreads across the stegosaurus’s face. “Sorry for throwing a wrench into that plan of yours. Real shame what happened to Eggsy. You probably figured that out, though. Which means you waited for the heat to die down before coming back here to pick up his deposit, wherever it might be. Squirreled away in a bag of trash or a hole in the wall, probably.” He stops pacing and bends down, co*cking his head at me. “How close am I?”

I do my best to straighten myself out, still on my knees but hopefully looking less pathetic. “I don’t know any ‘Eggsy’. I’m telling you, I don’t know anything about…”

My words trail off as the stegosaurus’s hand moves to the revolver at his side. It slides free of its home before aiming directly at my head. My assailant’s eyes seem to glaze over as he begins muttering. “I’m not even gonna bother asking again. I’m done dealing with f*cking skinnies at this point. I’ll find the money. Sure, I’ll have to wait a week or so. Two hits in the same alley in as many days.” He chuckles. “The cops will be flabbergasted. But they’ll move on. And when they do, I’ll find the money.”

He draws back the hammer of his pistol. I try to protest, but all that escapes is a rasping wheeze. My teeth clench together as my body instinctively prepares itself for the inevitable, horrific, conclusive pain that is about to be inflicted upon it.

Please. I’ll tell you where the money is, just give me a chance to speak.

I don’t want to die.

Not now.

Not when…

Aubrey…

—

“I’m t-terribly sorry, everyone. We’ll… we’ll give you all refunds. Please, just remain calm-” The microphone offers little benefit to the lilliputian man’s voice. His words are drowned out by the thunderous racket that erupts from the crowd, a cacophony of confused jeers and enraged questioning.

Aubrey takes a step back as she gasps, bumping into me with the movement. I place my hands on her shoulders to steady her; she spins around in response. “Wh-what do they mean, ‘arrested’? Who would have…” Her eyes shoot wide, suddenly filled with anger. She begins shoving her way through the rabble toward the entrance. I follow, not fully understanding her enraged response. I mean, I’m pissed off that the show was canceled, too, but if Miles Cratis got arrested, what good can we do?

A tangle of bodies plugs the doorway, elbows and curses flying as the impatient crowd seeks an answer to the most pressing question: why was Miles Cratis arrested? What could he have possibly done to lead to his detention and an interruption to this perfect night of performance?

Aubrey exercises no patience or delicacy in her march forward. Her eyes are ablaze and her teeth are brandished as she presses on, with me following closely behind like a leashed toddler. Some patrons evacuate from her path upon seeing her; others must be encouraged with a nudge or a shove, eliciting half-spoken curses until those that utter them turn to see the hue of the person pushing past. As riled up as everyone is, nobody is going to argue with a pissed off velociraptor on the warpath.

With a bit of effort, we squeeze out of the claustrophobic, stuffed entryway and into the slightly cooler late evening air. Though a gaggle of onlookers mill about, there’s decidedly more room to maneuver here than there was inside; Aubrey rapidly shifts around the crowd to get as close to the pair of nearby squad cars as she can.

We only see him for a brief moment. Miles Cratis, handcuffed and with a partially dried rivulet of blood displayed across the side of his face, is stuffed into the backseat of one of the cruisers. Aubrey’s gasp quickly turns to a growl as she lunges forward. However, she doesn’t get within twenty feet of Cratis before a police officer extends his hand to rebuff her advance.

“Ma’am, please stay back,” the officer commands, but Aubrey screams past him toward the men closing the back door of the car into which the lead performer of our show was just stuffed.

“DUFFY! PRESTON! WHAT THE f*ck DID YOU DO?!”

The blue-clad dilophosaurus and spinosaurus turn to witness the infuriated velociraptor at the edge of the crowd. As they do, I instantly sink backward, hoping to avoid their notice.

The same f*cking guys that arrested me. The same ones that interrogated me back at the precinct. Holy sh*t, what the f*ck are they doing here?!

In reply to Aubrey’s fury, the pair only offer sneering grins as they climb into the front seats of their vehicle. A few quick taps of their siren allow them to perform a rapid U-turn and travel in the direction of the station from which they hail. The station that… isn’t even close to this nightclub. Hell, it’s an entire borough away.

Aubrey takes a step back, causing the officer to lower his arm and, after shooting her another sideways look, move away to speak with his partner near the trunk of their own parked cruiser. All I can do is stand behind her for a moment, unsure of what to say. I glance down; her fingers are curled into tight fists and her tail snaps to and fro.

She doesn’t hold the suspended position for long, spinning on her heel and stomping several yards away, only to turn about and stride back. She repeats this process a half dozen times, saying nothing but keeping her limbs tensed and her eyes focused on nothing in particular. Occasionally her lip curls as though she’s about to blurt out a blasphemy, but each time it sinks back down to a scowl before any utterance is made.

All I can do is watch as she processes her emotions. I wish I had a word of comfort I could offer, but I’m still confused about the entire situation. Everything happened so fast, and nobody said why Miles Cratis was being arrested. I strain my ears for any insight offered by nearby gossip, but the only clues I catch wind of are that the police stopped, an argument broke out, and next thing anyone knew Miles was in the back of the police car. None of it makes any-

“Those damn crooked sons of bitches. Those goddamn asshole sons of bitches!” Aubrey’s pacing has stopped, being replaced with a string of expletives directed toward two individuals who are blocks away by now. “I swear to God I’ll kick their asses. Both of ‘em. I’ll hospitalize those sons of bitches.”

“Aubrey…” I take a cautious step forward.

She doesn’t seem to hear me. “Why in God’s name would they do this? Why are they being so cruel? Racist bastards, there was no reason for them to arrest Miles Cratis! I bet they came here just because they knew I was here! Those goddamn pricks, they ruined everything! They ruined my date! They hurt Miles Cratis! f*cking WHY?!”

I gingerly move a little closer. “Aubrey, listen. It’ll be alright.”

Her eyes are glued to the sidewalk. Tears stream down her cheeks. Her fists tremble. “Why can’t I have anything? Not even one goddamn night of happiness?! WHY-”

Aubrey gasps, interrupted by my next action.

I’ll admit… this might not be the smartest thing I’ve ever done. After all, this is a furious velociraptor I’m dealing with, complete with sharpened claws and eviscerating teeth. As an unqualified human, I don’t know what all a dinosaur’s emotional breakdown involves or how best to treat it safely. As such, there’s a non-zero chance that my jugular’s about to get torn out, and if that happened there’d be no one to blame but the stupid caveman who approached an enraged predator. But… I’m executing a hail mary. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

I slide my arms around her shoulders and bring her body into contact with mine, my wrists passing one another as the encircling motion comes to rest. Her already stiff posture practically goes rigor mortis as she locks in place, her tail snapping to an almost perfect vertical angle. With our close proximity I can no longer see her face, and aside from her gasp of surprise I don’t hear her breath either.

If I’m about to die, I may as well go for broke.

I rest my head against the side of hers, feeling her short blue hair rustle against my cheek. I gently squeeze her in my embrace before whispering to her. “It’s okay, Aubrey. Everything’s gonna be okay.”

She finally releases the breath that had caught in her throat, a shuddering, decompressing sigh entwined with a choked sob. Her posture slacks, the rigid tail behind her collapsing to the ground in a defeated thud. Her fingers uncurl before finding their way to my back, gripping tightly to my suit jacket. She nuzzles her snout into the crook of my shoulder, whimpering only one word.

“Sammy…”

I stroke the nape of her neck, wishing more than anything that I could take her pain away. This meeting-turned-date has been a roller coaster for both of us. What started friendly and amicable quickly turned sour when I opened my stupid mouth and asked a woman with a bad knee to a f*ckin’ swing dance. I embarrassed the hell out of myself and I thought that was gonna be the end of it. Sure, she said it was “okay” but I know all too well that it only takes one boneheaded f*ck-up to turn a potential courtship into a “never speak to me again”...

But… she danced with me. Just when I was feeling like I’d blown my chance with this beautiful, strong-willed woman, she offered me her hand and led me to the dance floor for a slow enough song that her knee could handle. When her gentle hands came to rest on my shoulders, I felt like my heart was gonna fly out of my chest. And when her tail crept up on me like some sort of feathered commando, I just about yelped in surprise. But after the initial shock, the sensation provided by her alien appendage was… comforting. Even kinda… sexy.

I feel my cheeks lighting up like they did back on the dance floor. I wish I could keep myself from blushing like an imbecile, but it is what it is. Instead, I try to shift my focus back to the moment at hand. Feeling that her trembling has calmed and her breathing has steadied, I lean back a little to meet Aubrey’s eyes. The yellow orbs scintillate in the moonlight, shimmering with residual moisture. Again, the primal need inside of me to protect this woman who likely doesn’t need my protection in the slightest flares up; I run a gentle hand across her cheek, brushing away the small streaks that mar her makeup. She responds by tilting her head into my hand ever so slightly, still staring up at me, awaiting my words.

“... I’m sorry that tonight has been rough on you, Aubrey. I… wish that things had gone different. We could still be in that club, with Miles Cratis playing his heart out for nobody but us two. I might have even built up the courage to hold your hand while we listened.” This elicits a small giggle from Aubrey before I continue. “I wish none of this bad sh*t happened, but… I’m still thankful that you invited me out tonight. Some random guy who stopped and complimented your humming at a bus stop got to enjoy a wonderful evening with a kind, charming, beautiful woman. I’m glad I got to spend tonight with you.”

She draws in a sharp breath, her own cheeks reddening at my remarks. Her eyes shift back and forth, not settling on a specific place on which to focus. Her face is awash with emotions, none of which I can properly pin down. I mean… I hope she feels a certain way, like how I feel about her right now, but her expressions aren’t easy to read. I’m left unsure on how to proceed, any building debonair momentum being lost to hesitation.

She fills in the blank for me in an instant, drawing her face to mine. Our lips connect, electric and exotic, thrilling and saccharine. It’s a sensation completely foreign to me, yet perfectly familiar, both alarming and alluring. Though briefly caught off guard by her brazenness, I quickly become enthralled, returning her kiss with my own. The lingering tension in her body melts as she realizes I reciprocate her emotion, a soft, solitary gasp escaping from between our joined lips.

Aubrey. You are everything I want in a woman.

Aubrey…

—

“PIERCE!”

An unfamiliar voice causes my tightly-squeezed eyes to shoot open, a brief flurry of spots and stars bombarding my vision. The barrel of the gun held mere inches away from my face rocks backward ever so slightly as its wielder snaps his head around to regard the person that interrupted him.

The stegosaurus speaks in a growl. “Marty?! What are you doing here?!”

Slightly out of breath upon the end of his short jog, the diplodocus who seems to be named Marty stares down at both of us. “Pierce, you idiot. You think you’ll just drop me off and mysteriously say you gotta ‘take care of something’, expecting me not to know exactly where you’re headed?” He focuses on me, then the gun that the stegosaurus he called Pierce has pointed at my head. “The real question is, what the f*ck is going on here?! Who the hell is this human?! And why do you got iron drawn on him?!”

Chapter 8: Aubrey

Chapter Text

As the cab door latches shut and the vehicle merges back into traffic, I crane my neck to watch Sammy fade from sight. He doesn’t take his eyes off of me until he can no longer see me beyond the tangle of steel and headlights that still clutter the street, even at this late hour. I bring a hand to my cheek, feeling the burning hot capillaries just beneath my scales. They betray my emotions, parading before an audience of none that my heart is racing, my mind is spinning, and my deepest, most private recesses are yearning. Longing for the embrace and passionate love of a man with piercing blue eyes and handsome tanned skin. A muted sigh escapes as Sammy’s bravado replays, his lips dancing across the surface of mine in explorative exultation. My imagination desperately clings to the moment like it’s an enrapturing song on a record, and I refresh the needle to the most explosive and enthralling part over and over and–

“Where to, miss?”

I involuntarily let out a yip, startled from my fantasy by the only other living being in this vehicle. He scans me by way of the rearview mirror; my face flushes to twice the brightness it had previously exuded. Stutters tumble from my lips before I can form a coherent response. “Ahh… um, the, uh… Police Department. Precinct 63, over on Brachlyn Avenue, please.”

He raises an eyebrow at me before offering a brief affirmative; I do my best to sink into the recess of the backseat out of embarrassment. Who knows what manner of lascivious expression I was wearing when the cabbie poofed into existence from nothingness and took note of me. My mind was… most certainly elsewhere…

Graciously, the driver does not fill the silence with idle chatter. Some are regular motor mouths, prodding with questions and cracking jokes. Perhaps the faraway, lustful gaze he pulled me away from turned him off to the idea of getting chummy. Hell, he might think I’m a crazy person, asking to be brought to the Police Department at close to eleven in the evening. That said… I do not mind the silence. I’d rather be in my own head right now.

With Sammy.

The end of my tail rests in my lap, furtively twitching as its own primitive mind recalls the sensation of Sammy’s back. The feathers bristle and quiver of their own accord, sending chills from the tip of the appendage all the way up my spine. I’ve been apart from Sammy for all of two minutes and already long for his touch again. His gentle hands, his calming breath, his tender kiss…

I shake my head. Yes, the night went well, and yes, I’m glad it turned into a date, and yes, my heart is racing at the thought of being with him again. But there’s more pressing matters that need my attention. My emotions shift from longing to frustration. I need to get into the station. I need to get in contact with the commissioner. I need to get this cleared up as soon as possible. The show was already ruined, but Miles Cratis doesn’t deserve to rot in a cell because a couple racist assholes decided to arrest him.

As I mull over my plan of action, the cab slows to a halt in front of the police station. I begin digging in my purse, but the driver reminds me that the “gentleman” already paid for my ride. My face begins warming up again; I quickly thank the cabbie and exit the vehicle, hearing it zip down the road behind me as I gaze up at my moonlight-soaked destination.

The station’s herculean presence over the road is imposing while the sun is out, but at night the building appears downright ominous. Sparse lighting tickles its emblem and the surrounding concrete festoons that rest above the main entrance. Despite looking at this building five days a week, my visitation occurs during the daylight hours. Now, it feels cold, almost otherworldly. Very few people consider a police station welcoming, but this haunting monolith rising from the hewn earth fills me with the desire to go in any direction but toward it.

I take a deep breath before marching up the stairs. The front entrance isn’t locked; though most of the administrative personnel work the standard nine-to-five shift, policing a city like this is a twenty-four hour operation. Blue uniforms pass to and fro, some nursing cups of coffee, others hauling irate handcuffed individuals to the lower levels of the station for booking. I don’t see Duffy or Preston anywhere, so I purposefully stride over to the front desk.

Unlike the humorless Ruth that works the same hours as me, the night shift desk corporal beams an enormous smile in my direction from beneath the mop of curly hair atop his rhinorex head. Somehow, he seems both younger than me and older than me at the same time. “Good evening, miss! How can I help you?”

I blink. “Umm… I need to speak to the commissioner. Can you call him?”

His smile does not falter, and his tone remains overly jovial. Whether it’s this fella’s default mood or a copious amount of caffeine in his system, I can’t be certain. “Ma’am, we can’t be calling on the commissioner for every little thing! I’m sure there’s something I can help you with? Is this in regards to a violation of yours or someone you know?”

Oh. Of course. He doesn’t know I work for the police department. I can’t blame him, considering I don’t know his name, either. With a click of my tongue, I fish around in my purse before withdrawing the identification card adorned with my name. “I work here, in clerical, but it’s not about that. I need to speak to Commissioner Aaron regarding a man that was arrested tonight. It’s urgent.”

The young rhinorex’s eyes light up. “Ohh! I see, Miss…” He leans in, squinting past his thin-rimmed silver glasses to read the name on my ID. “... Carter! You can head on over to his office.”

“... Wait, he’s in right now?”

“Mmhmm! Been here since I clocked in, as far as I know.” I glance down from the receptionist’s friendly gaze, perplexed by this news. He was here all of today’s day shift, too. Shouldn’t he have gone home by now?

The smiling framed portraits of commissioners past watch me travel toward my destination. I ignore their frozen stares, going over once more how I want to approach this situation. I have to convince the commissioner that Miles Cratis is innocent and shouldn’t be detained here. I have to tell him about Duffy and Preston, how far out of their jurisdiction they had to go to have pulled something like this. How out of line they were. He has to be able to see that what they did was wrong. He’ll be able to make this right.

The commissioner’s office door is slightly ajar, his signal that he’s not on an important call or speaking with anyone. I gently rap my knuckles against the wood as I push the portal open, peeking my head in with an awkward half-smile. Commissioner Aaron glances up from his paperwork before raising an eyebrow at me. “Carter? What are you doing here?”

I slip through the opening and close the door behind myself. “I could ask you the same question, Commissioner. You don’t always work this late, do you?”

He looses a puff of air from his nostrils. “No. It’s been… well, it’s been a day.” A scan of my outfit leads to another elevated brow. “What’s the occasion?”

I glance down at myself, only now remembering the yellow dress. The commissioner’s confusion isn’t unwarranted; I don’t dress like a slob for work, but this is an unusual level of accoutrement for me. “Oh… um, I went to that event that you gave me tickets for. The jazz club over in Cavemanhattan.” He stares at me, wordlessly awaiting further explanation of my appearance here tonight. “I… the show was interrupted because Miles Cratis–the lead performer for the band–was… he was arrested.”

Commissioner Aaron subtly shakes his head. “So why are you here, then? That’s Cavemanhattan jurisdiction, probably Midtown North–”

“It was Duffy and Preston that arrested him. Miles Cratis stepped outside during a break and, next thing anyone knew, he was bloodied and in the back of those two’s squad car.”

His eyes seem to glaze over for a moment as he deciphers what I just said before he lets out a sigh and pinches the bridge of his beak. His arms then cross themselves across his chest, one finger tapping the bicep across from it. He doesn’t respond, instead seeming to process my words.

I don’t know what’s going through his head, but I have to make sure he understands. “Like you said, that isn’t our jurisdiction. They were–”

His eyes snap up toward me. “Our jurisdiction?”

sh*t. “...Your–I mean, this station’s jurisdiction…”

Another sigh. “I’ll take care of it. Thank you, Carter.”

I feel a thankful smile start to spread across my lips before it halts. He… said he’d take care of it. The commissioner is an honest man, and if he said he’ll do something, he’ll do it. So why…

Why do I feel unsatisfied with his answer?

He had turned back to his paperwork, wearing an expression of equal parts annoyance and exhaustion. I catch his attention again. “Sir. If I may ask, what are you going to do?”

He frowns. “I’ll take care of it, Carter. Thank you for your help.”

“But what about Miles Cratis?”

“I’m sure he’s being booked right now.”

“But he didn’t do anything wrong! He doesn’t deserve to be–”

“If he didn’t do anything wrong, he’ll likely be released in the morning.”

My voice unwillingly takes on a pleading tone. “Sir! This is the same thing Duffy and Preston did with Samuel, arresting a human for no reason! You have to–”

His eyes flare at me and his voice sharpens. “Carter. You are dismissed.”

My mouth hangs open in shock and defeat. Unable to overcome his steeled gaze, I sheepishly turn toward the door and slip back into the hall. My tail has coiled itself around my midsection again; I quickly push it down and back to its resting position. I hate that it does that, it makes me feel foolish and look weak. A weak woman who’s not a real police officer, just some gabbing broad who needs to be put in her place.

Standing outside the commissioner’s office, I try to force down the bubbling anger that rises in my stomach. The rage is sharped, like darts being thrown at a board adorned with images of those deserving of ire. The commissioner should have shared my righteous zeal and stormed down to the booking room to free Miles Cratis. Duffy and Preston should be fired on the spot. Even my face is peppered with needle points, a worthless waste of scales that can’t even help an innocent man that needs help.

My fingers tighten into fists. All at once, the anger guides my feet deeper into the building. I make a beeline toward a rear access staircase leading to the lowest floor, less traveled and less conspicuous. The metal stairs reverberate under my soft-soled heels, but not loud enough to escape the mildewy concrete-encased column. At the bottom, a smattering of doors on either side of the off-brown hallway lead to storage areas and unused offices, and the end of the hall bends toward the holding and processing departments where detainees are carted in, ID’d if possible, and tossed into cells to await further action. Drunks are usually cut loose the following morning; more serious offenders inevitably get transferred elsewhere when the time comes.

As I stare down the hallway, blood still boiling, a sudden cold sweat breaks out on my forehead. What, exactly, am I going to do? I’m furious, yes, and filled with conviction that this is the right thing to do… but what can I actually accomplish here? I can scream at Duffy and Preston about what fools they are, but all that will do is give them further reason to antagonize me. I have no authority to reprimand or fire them. Hell, I couldn’t even set Miles Cratis free without committing a felony in the process. Regardless of being employed by the city, I couldn’t even write myself out of a parking ticket, let alone release a man from a holding cell.

Still convinced that I must do something but suddenly unsure of myself, I make a hasty decision and push through the door to the darkened locker room on my right. I’d only ever been in there once before, when I was shown the layout of the building during my orientation tour. It’s used by officers to swap into their uniforms or back into their civilian clothes; since I’m not an officer, I have no need for the space. Besides that, I don’t know that I’d care to change clothes in front of the leering eyes of men like Duffy or Preston, though if such a sacrifice meant I’d be a police officer...

I shake my head, clearing it of any unnecessary delusions of grandeur. The next shift change isn’t for another several hours, so I assume the space will be unused. Even still, I peek about the blackened chamber cautiously, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, listening for any rustling clothes or clattering lockers of an officer who might be present even with the lights off. Some species of dinosaurs aren’t bothered too much by the absence of light, after all. When I don’t hear anything and my pupils have sufficiently dilated, I quietly move through the space toward its opposite end. Past the several rows of lockers and wooden slats, I press my ear against another door, hearing the faint murmurs of voices on its other side. With utmost caution and delicacy, I pull the portal open a crack.

Beyond is a common room adjacent to booking, its handful of tables and chairs offering respite to an officer on break that doesn’t want to trudge up to the second story, or space for the mundanity of paperwork that comes with arresting a person. Presently, a handful of men occupy the chairs; some cradle coffee mugs, others scrawl upon white sheets adorned with numerous clerical lines and checkboxes. Two of these men I recognize all too well, and one of them loudly chatters as his pen slides across another form.

“–more goddamn paperwork. You guys actually take this sh*t seriously? I could probably just scribble punchlines from today’s funny papers and I bet nobody would even notice.” The spinosaurus’s grating, callous voice makes my feathers stand on end.

Duffy lets out an annoyed grunt before replying. “Just fill it out proper. Those bitches in clerical will make you redo it, and redo it again after that if you keep f*cking it up.”

Preston’s tail snaps against the floor behind his chair. “Feh. Didn’t figure there’d be so much of this boring bullsh*t when I signed on.”

“Welcome to the force, this is a good chunk of what we do.” Duffy’s voice is resigned and weary, whether due to the late hour of their new shift or his own apathy toward his job, I can’t tell.

Preston sets his pen down before scratching the side of his face. “Hey, Duffy. What were we puttin’ as the reason for that skinnie’s arrest? We should keep it, uh… constant, right?”

The dilophosaurus turns to his partner, squinting his eyes. “... ‘Consistent’ is the word you’re looking for. And, yes. Our paperwork should be consistent.” He rustles a few forms before withdrawing one. “I marked it down as ‘loitering’ and ‘refusing to cooperate when questioned’. Should be good enough.”

Preston frowns. “But what about me takin’ my nightstick to his skull? Won’t they question why I bloodied him up if that’s all we’re sayin’ he did?”

Duffy shrugs. “Probably not. But, I suppose… we could add ‘battery’ to the list. He was swingin’ his hands around pretty aggressively. Good thing he wasn’t holdin’ a spear, otherwise we woulda had to escalate our response!” His chuckle is echoed by the spinosaurus next to him before they both return to their paperwork.

My teeth grind together, and my breathing is labored. The reddened veins in my eyeballs intrude into my peripheral vision. I extend my claws as I fantasize about kicking the door down, leaping across the room and tearing both of their heads from their bodies.

They made it up. They arrested Miles Cratis for no reason but the ones they just conjured out of thin air. They injured him just because they could. Despicable monsters, unworthy of their badges or their lives. Rationality is forced further down as pure, primal fury swells in its place.

Preston leans back in his seat and cracks his knuckles before throwing an arm over his chair to address another officer across the room. “Hey, Johnson. You think any more on what I mentioned about the Local 237?”

Johnson, a wide-eyed deinonychus officer with frilled elbows glances up from his lunch pail. “Uhh… not much. I mean, ain’t we already with the PCA?”

The spinosaurus’s grin spreads wider, his words slick with a feigned tone of sincerity. “Oh, naaah. I’m not talking about us switching unions! It’s more of a… volunteer opportunity! We’re looking for some able-bodied men to help with some fundraising, and sure, it’s not the station’s union but they got a good bunch of guys over there! Plus, it’d help to have some friendly faces in blue there to show our support for the workin’ fellas!”

As the other officer scratches his chin in contemplation, Preston rises from his seat and begins striding… oh no.

“I’ve got some paperwork in my locker, lemme grab you one of the pamphlets!”

I stumble backward as time slows to a crawl. He’s only a few steps away from the door; escape isn’t an option. If I tried sprinting for the other exit… even if my knee holds out, I wouldn’t get out of Preston’s line of sight in time. I briefly consider attacking him, given my continued blood boil, but I know it will lead to my firing and arrest, or worse.

There’s only one option. I desperately throw open a locker to my left, praying that it’s vacant.

It is.

I quickly shimmy into the tight space, fearing that even this will be accomplished too late, that the door will swing open and Preston’s exclamation of surprise and anger will spell my capture and punishment. With a quick heave, I yank my tail into the frighteningly restrictive confinement and pull it closed as rapidly and noiselessly as possible. Not even a half second after it latches shut, light from the door I was peering through just a moment ago pours into the room.

“Tch. Where’s that switch?” I hear Preston’s hand clumsily slap at the wall until a soft click bathes the locker room in fluorescent light. Some of it slips past the three horizontal slits in my hiding spot; I lean back as far as possible, holding my breath and trying to steady the roaring beat of my heart. I’m certain that the spinosaurus’s head is going to whip in my direction, his malevolent emerald eyes boring through the thin piece of metal that separates us.

Instead, he saunters down the row of lockers upon which my field of view rests. Near the end, he pulls open a hatch with his last name affixed at eye level. Preston rustles through his locker’s contents when the sound of another door opening intrudes upon the room. This time, it was the entrance at the other end, the one I used a few minutes ago to sneak in here. Heavy footsteps stride in our direction, the echo of leathered heel against tile reverberating against the steel surroundings. A massive shape abruptly halts in front of my porthole, smothering me in blackness again.

“Oh, hey, commissione–GRAWWKMMMPH!” Preston’s words are cut short as Commissioner Aaron crosses the space between them in two gargantuan steps before wrapping his hand around the spinosaurus’s beak, twisting his head and slamming him against the lockers next to the men. He struggles only momentarily and quite fruitlessly as the pterodactyl pins him in place, left only to peer at his captor with a wide, bewildered sideways eye. Fearful, sharp breaths escape his muzzled teeth as the commissioner speaks.

“You imbecile. You worthless sack of garbage. Twice now. TWICE in two days I get word that you are being a reckless fool!” His words are acrid and unnerving, carrying a level of anger I’ve never heard from the usually stern but kind leader. “Is this position not going to work for you? Did I make a mistake in bringing you into this department?”

The questioning seems rhetorical as the iron grip Commissioner Aaron holds around Preston’s snout prevents him from replying. All the same, he tries to mumble out a muffled reply, still held at the mercy of his boss’s imprisonment.

“You realize this position carries with it numerous responsibilities, do you not? It’s not about being a cowboy and doing whatever the hell you feel like doing. That badge isn’t carte blanche to make a mess of things and cause problems for me and everyone else around you. You are serving and protecting, first and foremost. You are expected to uphold the law and do the right thing when you wear that uniform. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

He waits, not loosening the hold he has on Preston. A moment goes by before the entrapped spinosaurus lets out a muted affirmative.

Commissioner Aaron’s posture straightens. He leers down at the chastised officer before speaking with finality. “If I hear even one more peep of you stepping out of line, I will not be as gentle as I’ve been tonight.” With one final burst of air from his nostrils, the pterodactyl releases Preston who immediately gasps for air through his now freely open mouth. He slumps down, seeming to cower away from the commissioner who spins on his heel and exits the locker room through the portal that leads to the common room. Though I can’t make out the exact words he says, his muffled voice still carries a tone of intense anger. I can only guess that Duffy is receiving a verbal lashing, though seemingly without the manhandling that Preston just got.

I stare ahead at the now seated spinosaurus, perched on the thin wooden bench that slides down the center of the lockers. I expect to see his hands curl into balls, his tail thrash about and his teeth bared in fury. Instead, he simply sits motionless, arms slumped at his sides, staring at the tiled floor between his feet. He remains like this for several minutes. The voices from the adjacent room have dulled; whether the space is now vacant or merely filled with the same officers now keeping silent after the reprimand is unclear. Finally, Preston stands, meekly placing one foot before the other to exit the room, forgetting his original reason for being here as whatever paperwork he had mentioned to Johnson remains inside his locker.

It’s only as he steps closer to my hiding spot that I notice his eyes. Within them, I don’t see rage or confusion as I expected to, given his brash and cruel exterior. Instead, I only see… fear. A clouded, faraway look as though he just received devastating news regarding a loved one’s illness. My breath catches in my throat again and I remain as still and silent as possible, fearing he’ll notice me as he walks directly toward me, but he does not. His jaw hangs slightly ajar, and he seems to mumble to himself as he turns toward the common room exit. I can’t discern what he says, but it doesn’t seem to be grumbles or blasphemies. Instead, he almost comes across as contemplative, a trait I wouldn’t expect such a horrid man to possess.

He doesn’t turn the light off before leaving the room. I wait another two minutes past his departure, listening intently for any sound of voices or footsteps. I hear none. With a little trouble I manage to disengage the latch from the inside of the locker door. It swings open, allowing me to step out and breathe a sigh of relief. Just before I turn to hustle out of this dangerous space, something catches the corner of my eye.

Preston’s locker is still open. He mentioned paperwork about… what was it? Local 237? I tiptoe over to the ajar portal and peer inside. Within, a change of casual clothes befitting a fella like Preston rests, including a tacky red-checkered overshirt and well worn slacks. Below the hanging outfit, piled beneath several other manilla folders stuffed with paperwork, the corner of a brochure pokes out, resting on top of several identicals. I grip the paper and slide it free, being careful to not shift the other items too noticeably. On the brochure’s surface is an emblem with the heads of two mules jutting from the sides of a large, stylized wheel. Below it, the words:

The International Brotherhood of Herdsters

New York, Local 237

Information and Membership Opportunities

I stuff the pamphlet into my purse and hurry toward the exit closer to the less used staircase. After taking a moment to determine that the coast is clear, I slip into the hallway and back upstairs. I do not see Preston, Duffy or Commissioner Aaron on my way out of the precinct’s front entrance. Only once the muggy evening air washes over me does my heartbeat start to slow. Sweat stains my yellow dress and my knee hollers at me, displeased with the extra stress I’ve caused it so late into the night.

A taxi cab coasts to a stop next to the sidewalk in response to my raised hand. I climb in, give the driver my street name, and proceed to slump back, relieved and exhausted. The ride is only a few minutes, and I consider simply staring out the window until my home and the bed it contains appear, but something about the interaction I just witnessed gnaws at my mind. I swing my purse around to my front and withdraw the hastily plunged folded paper.

On its surface, the same twin-mule-adorned logo stares back at me, with the same text I read only a few minutes prior. I’d only heard about the Herdsters in passing, and never anything good. Sure, they put on big smiles for parades and local events that they sponsor, but their organization has been in the news on more than one occasion. It’s usually a senator throwing accusations of corruption or treachery at the highest echelon members of the union, with some even being arrested. There’s no definitive proof that the Herdsters are crooked to the bone, hence why they can still operate in the city. Even still, I’m more than a little wary of them.

I thumb the pamphlet open, staring at the lines of text with hazy eyes. Platitudes extolling the virtues of the union grace the fold-out’s interior, testimonials of retained jobs and money saved by employers. I click my tongue, trying to piece everything together.

“Ya thinkin’ o’ joinin’ da Herdstahs?” The cab driver’s voice snaps me out of my lull. He gazes back at me through the rearview mirror, his thick accent second only to the thickness of the unibrow above his allosaurus eyes. “Dey a real good peoples, dey is!”

I blink, unsure of how he read my thoughts until I realize I’m holding the pamphlet’s front toward his field of vision. “Oh. Umm… not exactly. I was just… taking a look at this is all.”

He doesn’t seem to get the hint that I’m not in a chatty mood, immediately firing into a diatribe. “Dey’s a good union! I was workin’ fer a cab comp’ny, an’ dey got bought out, an’ I was gonna lose my job, but da Herdstahs helped me get dis job wit’ dem! I owe dem bigtime fer helpin’ me keep workin’ an’ doin’ what I loves ta do!”

Though he’s a little difficult to understand, I humor him with a question, wondering if he might be able to offer a bit more perspective. “So they hired you?”

“Nah, nah, dey was da union fer da otha cab comp’ny. Dey, uhh…” His colossal eyebrow furrows as he seems to struggle with the next word. “... absorp’d da one I was wit’! Real good guys, real good!”

Absorbed… something about the term plucks at the back of my memory, but I can’t place why. I brush it off and continue questioning him. “Have you ever been worried about the Herdsters doing anything… shady?”

He glances over his shoulder at me for a brief moment. In his glance, I spot a genuine smile. “Nah! They good guys! Real helpin’ an’ kind! Mista’ Rossi’s a good man!”

I return his smile but don’t ask anything further. The name ‘Rossi’ doesn’t mean anything to me, but this cab driver’s word about the Herdsters is all I have to go on right now. Despite coming across as a little simple, he expressed nothing but admiration for them. That said, he’s only an employee of a company that uses the union, not directly employed by them. It’d make sense that he would be unaware of, or perhaps completely blind to, any sort of misdealings they might be committing.

Before long the cab pulls over. I hand the driver several coins to cover my fare plus a small tip and bid him goodnight before entering my apartment building and moving upstairs toward my home. My knee twinges several times on the flight of stairs, threatening to send me sprawling if I misstep even slightly. Thankfully, I make it to the top without incident and unlock the door to my apartment.

In a matter of seconds, my dress falls in a heap on the floor and I collapse onto my bed. Even though I’m physically exhausted, my brain doesn’t turn itself off quite yet. I think back to the precinct, to my sudden stint in espionage as I spied on conversations that weren’t meant for my ears. A twinge of regret fires through me; I’m not a dishonest person, and I don’t enjoy eavesdropping. I’m the only one to blame for having snooped on Duffy and Preston, and my actions led to me having to hide and, consequently, watch Commissioner Aaron’s reprimand of Preston.

My mind replays the altercation, with the commissioner brutally pinning Preston down as he chastised him. I remember the fear in Preston’s normally antagonistic and demeaning eyes, both when he was being accosted and several minutes after when he finally found the strength to leave the locker room. I understand that the commissioner is an intimidating guy, and he was rightfully pissed off, but… why was Preston so rattled?

I think again of the brochure, filled with words of encouragement to join a labor union that competes with that of our precinct. Hell, our whole city. The Police Compassion Association, despite its corny name, has serviced all of the city’s police officers and administrative employees for over fifty years. Preston told Johnson that he wasn’t trying to get anyone to switch unions, but… is that true? Is Preston working for the Herdsters and trying to sway members of the police force to call for a change? If that’s true, how many other Prestons are there at other precincts in the city? Or even in ours?

I shake my head, my hair tousling against the pillow beneath it. I don’t know nearly enough about the Herdsters or Preston to start throwing around accusations. Sure, I despise the spinosaurus and want to see him gone, but I can’t go to the commissioner with a hunch and a brochure I could have found anywhere. Hell, Preston could easily hand-wave the others in his locker as the innocent gesture he presented to Johnson, and then eyebrows would raise at me as to how I knew about the contents of a male officer’s private storage space. I’m a woman, and I’m not a police officer. I have no business knowing what I know right now.

A sigh escapes my lips. The heat is sufficiently combated by the air conditioner I’ve let run all day. I know the electric bill will be outrageous, but I need to escape the stifling air especially as my mind drifts again, moving itself further back in the evening. To the jazz club, to the performance of a lifetime that was cut short, and to the man who held me in his arms and kissed me. My face flushes and my heartbeat rises as I think about him, but I push the feelings down. It was a wonderful night and he was a gentleman, but kissing on the first date… especially when it wasn’t even a date to begin with? What sort of woman will he think I am?

I’ll just have to be a bit more stern with him. I enjoy being with him, and I’d be thrilled if this turned into a real relationship, but I’m not going to rush into things. I can’t rush things. I need… to be sure. Sure that Sammy will treat me right. That he won’t…

No. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about him. You’re a strong woman. You’ve got good judgment now. That will never happen again.

I can tell that Sammy’s not that kind of man. He’s kind, and he’s gentle. The way he comforted me when I was so angry, the way he held me until I stopped trembling, the way he returned my kiss… I can tell.

Sammy… even if I’m gonna put my foot down and insist we take things at a respectful and patient pace…

I hope I dream about you tonight…

—

The hands of the clock had moved well past midnight, yet the spot next to me in bed was still empty. I rolled over again, unable to get comfortable. We were so close, and yet he kept doing this. I’ve talked to him, I’ve yelled at him, I’ve pleaded with him, but it was never anything more than a hand wave and a sarcastic remark.

The cruel thought pecked at the back of my mind like a caged raven searching its enclosure for a weak spot, desperately seeking escape. This man… wasn’t the same as when I married him. He was so charming back then, and funny. But now, he was hardly ever home. “Work”, he said. Why would he have bothered to tell me what he does for a living? Why would he tell me anything? Just kept me in the dark, expecting me to keep my mouth shut and keep the home in order like a good, obedient wife.

I brought a palm to my forehead, wiping away the stress-induced sweat. I wanted to be a good wife to him. I wanted us to be happy together. But it seemed he only ever knew how to push me away.

The sound of the front door opening and then clumsily slamming shut informed me of what I already knew. I should have just pretended to be asleep, letting him stumble into the bedroom and collapse on the bed next to me. He wouldn’t bother trying to get handsy. He hadn’t done that for months. Despite everything, I still had needs and I still wanted his affection, but he wouldn’t provide it anymore.

I heard him whistling, jovial and carefree, as though he wasn’t noisily coming home in the early hours of the morning to his waiting wife. Whistling. My teeth grated together as his loud footfalls rose up the stairs.

I wasn’t going to stand for this. He was going to get a piece of my mind.

I swung my legs out of bed and stood with a bit of a struggle, the weariness and anger combining in a vitriolic ichor in my mind. After crossing the space, I threw the bedroom door open, meeting his gaze as he reached the top of the staircase.

His form was… distorted. A shifting amalgamation of color and shape. I saw no eyes, no snout, no tail and no body. But I knew for a fact that this was my husband. The rancid smell of his evening hung heavy in the air; that was proof enough.

“Heeey, Aubie! How’s my gal–”

“Don’t you ‘how’s my gal’ me, mister. Do you know what time it is?!”

A distended blob waved lazily in front of him. “Ohh, there ya go, bustin’ my balls again. I was just–”

“I don’t care. Enough is enough. You have responsibilities, to me and–”

His voice rose instantly. “Don’t you f*ckin’ tell me what my responsibilities are, you bitch! All you’ve ever been is a pain in my ass. All I want is to be left the f*ck alone, but it’s nag, nag, nag, on all ends. No slack at work, no slack at home. It’s all f*cked.”

Despite the sudden sullen downturn in his tone, the tears in my eyes and the anger in my heart led me to step toward him. I pleaded and chastised equally. “This isn’t who you are. I know you’re a loving man who wants what’s best for us! You have to get past this, you HAVE to do bette–”

In a flash, the chaotic void of darkness lunged forward. It grappled with the front of my nightgown and shook me violently. “DON’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO, YOU BITCH!”

I couldn’t scream. I could barely gasp. All that was left was the feeling of weightlessness, and then… nothing.

—

I lunge forward in my bed, sucking in air as quickly as my lungs will allow. My tail has coiled so tightly around me that it throbs, its circulation cut off by my positioning. I choke out sobs between my gasps, wiping the tears I already know are streaming down my cheeks away with my wrists.

God damnit. I just wanted one night without that dream. Why do I always wake up like this? Why can’t I get over this f*cking memory?

Almost in response, my knee aches unbearably. I pull my tail free from its pinned position, feeling the tingling sensation of blood returning to it, and proceed to rub my locked tendon in the usual morning ritual it requires.

Recurring nightmares. Sobbing mess in the morning. Constantly f*cked knee. How is Samuel going to tolerate a woman in this condition? How can he love someone as broken as I am? More tears well in my eyes as I keep massaging the sore joint; after a minute it finally loosens its death grip on the surrounding muscles and allows me the range of motion to shift my foot farther up the bed.

It’s a work day, Aubrey. There’s no time to feel bad for yourself. I glance at my alarm clock, realizing there’s only another three minutes before it’s going to go off. Instead of trying to doze off again, I spend the extra time continuing to massage my knee, gently stretching and retracting it, being wary of any sudden knots or pangs so I can focus on those spots. After the excessive work I had it do yesterday, it can use a little TLC this morning.

… “-seems those cats on Stegen Island can’t catch a break with construction. Anyway, that’ll do it for our traffic round-up. It’s 6 AM, and another balmy Old York City day calls for the cool, cool sound of Dizzy Granitespie’s ‘Con Alma’.”

My eyes instinctively close as the soothing Latin sound of Réne Hornendez’s piano melds with the bebop tip-tap percussion work of Ralph Baranda. Dizzy Granitespie’s trumpet joins them both soon enough; the music rocks back and forth as the key centers shift, seeming to emulate a lazy rowboat being bobbed in a gentle river. I feel foolish for claiming so many tracks by so many different musicians to be among my favorites, but I do love this song. “Afro”, the album to which this song belongs, has seen more than a little playtime on my record player.

The radio keeps me company as I handle my usual morning preparations. I notice the crumpled yellow dress in the same spot I left it last night. I’ll have to get to the laundromat soon; that dress means too much for me to let it wrinkle and fade in a sloppy pile on the floor. Besides, Sammy said I looked beautiful in it… I’ll absolutely wear it again, but definitely not for our next date. I don’t want him to think I don’t own any other clothes besides that old thing, despite how much I like it.

Of course… that’s assuming we have another date. I asked him to call me tonight, but will he? I mean, I think everything went well. But with how I’m feeling right now… I don’t even know that I deserve a man like him. I’d be such a burden to him. He deserves a woman who doesn’t have all this baggage, who can actually traverse a flight of stairs without being worried her knee will give out on her.

At the office, my day is largely uneventful. I do, however, immediately check as to whether Miles Cratis was released. The dispatcher checks his logs with sleepy eyes before informing me that the human brought in last night was released this morning, about thirty minutes ago. I let out a sigh of relief, thankful that the commissioner kept his word and handled the situation properly. A sting of regret follows as I recall losing my temper with him. He was here late, he was probably tired, and I nagged him. I make a mental note to apologize to him when I get a chance.

Emotionally, my day is a roller coaster. I go from swooning over the prospect of another date with Sammy to feeling bad for wanting to be with him. I think about Preston’s potential treachery, only to discourage myself with the knowledge that I don’t have beyond a flimsy hunch. I ruminate over the time wasted filling out envelopes and licking stamps that could have been spent protecting and serving, unlike what those incompetent officers are capable of doing.

Mercifully, the day ends without incident. Duffy and Preston must still be on night shift; if they weren’t, their presence would certainly have been made known. I had also tried casually strolling past the commissioner’s office a few times, but it was always vacant with the light turned off and the blinds over his interior windows pulled shut. Considering how late he was here last night, he must have taken the day off.

I waste no time in getting home, anxiously boarding the earliest bus that’s pointed in my apartment’s direction. Once there, I plop myself down on one of my kitchen chairs, staring at the telephone resting on the table directly across from me. Sammy said that he usually gets off work around 5 PM and is home around 6, so he could call any time!

… After about fifteen minutes of staring at the phone with my hands in my lap, I realize how childish this gesture is. He’ll call me when he calls. There’s nothing that’ll prevent me from picking up the phone so long as I’m home. I decide to thumb through my record collection, settling on Miles Cratis’s ‘Milestones’. As much as I love his newest jams, his 201M1958 BC album is a tremendous piece of his history and an absolutely breathtaking work of art.

Setting the black grooved disk on the turntable, a flip of a switch sets it rotating methodically. I lower the needle to the very edge of the record; some folks like to skip around, but I find albums best when they’re listened to in full. They tell stories that you won’t hear if you merely listen to that one hit from the radio and skip everything else.

Unlike the slow, sultry opening track of ‘Kind of Blue’, ‘Milestones’ opens with a frenetic, frenzied tune called ‘Dr. Jekyll’. I’d never read the namesake book featuring said character and his grisly counterpart Mr. Hyde, but if the tone of this perfectly blended cacophony is anything to go by, I’m sure the story is unnerving and enthralling. Still, I can’t help but bob my head with the seemingly disjointed rhythm on display in Cratis’s expertly crafted chaos.

Several seconds into the song, I realize the volume is a little loud. I’d probably still hear the phone, but just to be safe I adjust the dial down slightly. I love my music, but I don’t want to risk missing Sammy’s call on account of an album I’ve listened to a few dozen times by this point.

My stomach angrily reminds me that it still exists with a loud, sustained gurgle that can be heard even over Miles Cratis and his quintet. I silently curse myself, realizing that I completely forgot to eat lunch today. And with how much of a rush I was in to get home, I don’t exactly have a refrigerator bursting with food. I fish around in my cabinets before settling on a packet of saltine crackers. Not exactly nourishing and healthy, but they’ll do in a pinch and I’m absolutely not risking leaving to get food. Not when Sammy’s phone call is so close.

The needle reaches the end of the first side of Milestones; I flip it over, resetting the needle to enjoy Side B. When that exhausts itself, I grab another album, Dizzy Granitespie’s ‘Afro’. The track on the radio this morning got me in the mood to listen to it again. With the same motions as before, I set the record on the turntable and place the needle at its edge.

This repeats several more times, with a flipped record being followed by a fresh one. By the end of the fourth, ‘The Genius of Charlie Larker, #5’, I finally glance at the digits next to my bed. Almost ten o’clock. Up until now, the music had been joined by my chewing of salted crackers, my pacing, my attempts and failures to read a lousy, boring suggestion from my book club, and even a stint of staring out the window, waiting for the music to swell as the phone rings like in one of those corny romance movies.

The phone never rang. My emotions had shifted from happiness to anxiety to discomfort to anger to renewed, blind hopefulness across the near four hours I’ve been sitting around waiting for this man to do what he said he’d do. Now, as I re-house the spent record in its sleeve, the only thing left in my heart is resentment and disappointment. As I sit on the edge of my bed, slowly pulling down my dress to shift into my pajamas, these emotions are replaced by one.

Emptiness.

He’s decided that he doesn’t want to see me again. And it’s only fair. A woman like me doesn’t deserve a man like Sammy. He could easily catch himself a gal with better looks, a healthier frame, a more radiant smile and no broken knees. I had hoped a fool’s hope that things would work between us, but he’s come to his senses. The kisses we shared last night were only because of the heat of the moment. His attempt to console me as I lost my cool upon Miles Cratis’s unjust arrest.

Heh… ever the gentleman. He was looking out for my well-being, but it was just a gesture of kindness, not of love. I understand. I’m prepared to move on. Tomorrow will be a new day, perhaps with the sun shining a little less bright… but I’ll survive. I’ve survived this long, and I’ll–

Riiing… Riiing…

I spring from the mattress so quickly that I nearly trip and land on my face. Thankfully it’s not due to my knee seizing up but only my own clumsiness as the tips of my claws catch on the rug next to my bed. My tail swings around violently to help me keep my balance; once both legs are firmly beneath me, I practically sprint across my apartment toward the receiver. It doesn’t complete its third ring before I snatch the phone from its cradle and hold it to my ear.

“Hello?”

“Uhh… hey, Aubrey. This is Sam.”

My cheeks are flushing uncontrollably. “Hi, Sammy. I… I was worried you weren’t gonna call. It’s already so late.”

A pause. “... Yeah. I’m real sorry about that, Aubrey. I wanted to call you earlier, I really did, but… somethin’ came up.”

It feels as though my heart drops into my stomach. Something came up? What does that mean? Is he… “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine now. I just…” More silence.

I can’t stand the silence. I wish he’d just spit it out, whatever it was. If he’s gonna rebuke me and say he never wants to see me again, he should just get it over with so I can be done with this emotional hell I’m in.

He finally speaks. “I guess there’s no easier way to put this. I got a new job.”

“... What?” That’s all I can manage. I’m confused beyond belief. Why would he have gotten a new job in the span of less than twenty-four hours since I last spoke with him? He was just telling me last night about his loading dock gig. And, more importantly, why would this new job have prevented him from calling me a little sooner?

“Yep. It was a… bit of a surprise for me, to say the least. But I guess… it was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up. Or somethin’. To be honest, I’m still trying to wrap my head around it.”

“Sammy, you’re not making any sense. What is this job?”

“... I’m working for the Herdsters now.”

Chapter 9: Pierce

Chapter Text

“Unbelievable.”

It must be the fifth time the word has tumbled past my gritted teeth, with the same phrase being repeated internally dozens of times more since I got in this morning. Of course, the target of my ire has been this little piss-stain of a skinnie, having showed up fifteen minutes before… ugh, before our shift started. He stood around the lobby like a lost child, too meek and afraid to ask anyone for direction until Charles, Marty and I approached him. Charles was all smiles and handshakes, and even Marty was cordial with the f*cker. My fingers were clamped too tightly into fists to extend any pleasantries, and it was the first time that word slipped out today:

“Unbelievable.”

Charles heard it. I made sure that Charles heard it, and his reply was to peek over his shoulder and shoot me a sh*t-eating grin. He knows what he’s f*cking doing. He’s setting me up for failure. He’s clamping the meta-f*ckin’-phorical manacle and lead ball around my ankle before pushing me off the bridge and watching me sink to the inky depths. He’s trying to kill me without pointing a gun at the back of my head and pulling the trigger himself.

Coward.

… That one I didn’t say out loud. But I ain’t standing for this. My hands might be tied in regards to getting saddled with this sack of sh*t skinnie, but I’m not gonna sit by and let Charles Rossi get the better of me. My planning starts now. He’s gonna be the one to take this fall, not me. And when he’s lying in the gutter, grasping at my feet, begging me for help, I’m really gonna enjoy it when I get to tell him: “No.” Whether that’s a metaphorical gutter or a literal one, guess we’ll just have to wait and see what pans out.

Samuel Lawson. Even saying his name makes me gag. Scrawny f*cker, not as sweaty or twitchy as Eggsy was but still looks like a stiff breeze would knock him over. His plain brown jacket and wrinkled tie apparently only offend me, since nobody else has said a damn thing about his appalling outfit. He comes across as less an employee of the Herdsters and more a schlubby door to door salesman trying to peddle trashy kitchenware and cleaning supplies.

It’s all grins and “hello’s” from everyone else as the skinnie gets shown around our office, shaking hands and exchanging names with anyone Charles points him out to. He wears a nervous smile as the triceratops leads him deeper into the building before plopping him in a chair across from Irene, our personnel manager. The slightly chubby compsognathus slides a stack of paperwork across her desk for the skinnie to fill out, usual employment rigmarole. I know Charles will be getting a copy of that paperwork later on to stuff into his own little dossier he has on each employee under his supervision. After all, information is power, and holding a man’s address and social security number is pretty motivating if push comes to shove.

I attempt to excuse myself several times, not really having an interest in watching this troglodyte sign his name on two dozen different forms, but each time I try Charles asks me to do something for him. Fetch another form for our “new employee”, get him a cup of coffee, check with his assistant to see if any phone calls have come in… I know exactly what he’s doing. He’s yanking my leash every time I try to make a break for it, and it’s really pissing me off.

This goes on for the majority of the morning. How I kept my composure through it all and didn’t just tear Charles’s throat out is beyond my comprehension, but the time wasn’t a complete waste. It gave me an opportunity to watch the triceratops I have every intention of supplanting in his natural habitat. Sure, I could easily walk up to him and tap his forehead with a .357 round, but all that’d earn me is a lead kiss of my own. I have to be smarter about it. If I’m gonna knock this honeycomb off the tree, I need to make sure I’m not gonna get stung.

I’ve worked with the Herdsters for almost ten years now. I didn’t have any relatives who worked for ‘em or any of their partner organizations. That’s usually how you got started, by being related to somebody who was already an employee. But I had the good fortune of having a father who became close friends with some higher ranking members of the Herdsters. A handful of years after the war had ended and I was struggling to make ends meet for Bianca and myself, plus our little boy and a baby girl on the way, my father spoke with his friends and put in a good word for me. There wasn’t even an interview; a few phone calls were made and I was in.

Nearly ten years I’ve been doing their dirty work. It didn’t start that way, either. In the beginning I wasn’t doing anything more than standing security at pickets. Every once in a while I’d get asked to do a special job, but that was usually driving someone somewhere or making a quick delivery. It wasn’t until I was brought under Charles Rossi’s wing that I started being asked to take care of heavier work. The kind where the deliverable is usually around two hundred pounds and turns from warm to cold real quick after the job’s done.

Charles is the kind of man who demands a lot of respect, and he had earned a lot of respect throughout the Herdsters. Hell, he even had my respect until very recently. He’s the kind of fella who wears a smile more often than not, probably to offset the rough way he looked from all the scars. He’s professional and courteous, but he is far from a pushover. Those who have thought they could take advantage of his friendly demeanor for their own selfish ends usually wound up “enjoying” an early retirement.

Before he plucked me up and brought me onto his team, I was making a little money. Enough to put food on the table for my family in our small apartment, but it wasn’t much better than bagging groceries. After I started reporting to him, things got a lot better. I was able to afford our beautiful house, and both the cars. Bianca was able to quit her job and focus on keeping the home and the kids. I even started moving up the ranks, slowly but surely, and making even more money from the extra responsibilities I was being asked to undertake.

And then… all that unpleasantness with Franky happened.

Ever since, I’ve been busted back down to errand boy and quick fixer, though thankfully they didn’t dock my pay too badly. I’m still bringing in enough to keep Bianca happy and keep food on the table… but I’ve been here nearly ten years. Regardless of any alleged “mistakes” or “setbacks” or “troubles” that I may or may not have caused, I don’t deserve to be treated like dirt and made to babysit a f*cking skinnie.

Almost on cue, the skinnie gets a clap on the back from Charles as the last of his paperwork is completed. The entire morning is wasted with this latest acquisition, another worthless human who’s going to be a pain in my ass at best and a backstabbing thief at worst. Charles turns to Marty and I with a grin; I know what’s about to come, but dread it all the same.

“Well, Samuel. You’re all set on the administrative side. I say it’s high time for you to get out there on the streets and get some practical work under your belt. Pierce and Marty here would love to show you the ropes on how we do things!” His tongue slides back and forth behind his teeth as he stares directly at me, his disingenuous smile not faltering in the slightest. It takes every ounce of my composure to not lash him across the snout with my tail.

Marty breaks the tense moment of silence. “Not a problem at all, Charles. We’ll take him on our rounds.”

Charles stuffs a hand into his pocket and withdraws a stack of bills. He hands the skinnie thirty bucks before gently patting his shoulder. “Why don’t you fellas go get yourselves some lunch, and then take care of as much of the route as you can before all that beautiful, scalding sunlight outside dries up?”

The human looks at the money with saucepan eyes before turning back to Charles. “Um… I–I’ll bring you back your change when we’re done, Mr. Rossi!” Charles only shakes his head and gives a wink before striding away, humming to himself like he’s the king of the world.

It feels like the vein in my neck is gonna burst. My claws dig into my palms. Charles gives this filthy human two hundred dollars as a “sign-on bonus”, then gives him a job, and now forks over another thirty bucks just for lunch?! After we nearly lost all those dues that we collected to Eggsy and his bullsh*t–is Charles actually mentally retarded or does he think that inconveniencing me is truly worth this much money?!

Scenario after scenario plays over in my head as I try to piece together exactly how I’m going to make it through the day without strangling this skinnie to death with my own two hands. If I do, it’ll cost me my own life… but I just don’t see how I’m gonna be able to keep from doing it. Charles is playing his cards perfectly to put me in the most infuriating, inescapable spot that he can, and I’m starting to worry that it’s gonna work.

I take a deep breath, thinking of Bianca and the kids and how much it would hurt them if I was given an early retirement. I repeat to myself several times: it ain’t worth throwing your life away over one worthless skinnie.

“Pierce? You there, bud?” Marty’s voice pulls me back to reality. “Guess lunch is on the boss today, so let’s go get some grub. I’m starvin’!”

I can’t help but shoot my furious gaze in the skinnie’s direction one more time. He flinches away from me, rightly expecting that I could backhand his head clean off his shoulders if I felt inclined to do so. I snort before spinning on my heel, heading toward the parking garage and the long overdue escape from this place. The thorn in my side sheepishly follows behind Marty and myself, but at least I’m free of Charles’s antagonizing bullsh*t for the time being.

Three of the doors belonging to my Cadillac click shut; I’m too angry to even bother getting more upset by another skinnie being in my vehicle in such a short amount of time. As we pull out of the parking garage, Marty glances between me and the intruder in my back seat. “So, where you fellas in the mood to go for lun–”

“Horatio’s.”

Marty’s eyes widen in response to my one-word response. “H–Horatio’s? That place is… like, top top stuff! Heck, we’re probably underdressed for–”

“We’ll be fine.” Despite my anger, I’m able to put on a half-smile. “Besides, boss is payin’ for it, right?”

The only response Marty can muster is to shrug. The skinnie keeps his silence until we arrive at the restaurant about five minutes later; a valet whisks my car away from the small pull-through lane in front of the building. Before the three of us stand two marbled pillars, vines adorned with flowers every color of the rainbow weaving around each and joining together at the arch connecting them. They flank an enormous oakwood door attended by an ankylosaurus gentleman in a fine white suit. He offers a subtle bow as he ushers us into the restaurant.

I’d been to Horatio’s a few times before, but the splendor of its decor still gives me pause. White and green seem to be the only colors on display as the walls function as trellises for exquisite and exotic plant life. Their leaves are disturbed only by the gentle overhead fans that cool the space. We’re led to a round table dressed in an immaculate white cloth and already furnished with utensils and wine glasses.

As I expected, the heads of a few staff members turn our direction, likely due to the skinnie in our company. None of us are in our most formal clothing, but his shabby outfit is assuredly causing snouts to turn up. No matter, I’m gonna get a nice meal at his, and by proxy Charles’s, expense.

A dapper stegosaurus strides over to us, gently placing menus at our places before asking what we’d like to drink. A tall glass of some of their finest wine sounds nice for me, so I order it. Marty raises an eyebrow at me before ordering the same. The skinnie asks for water. Typical. Maybe they’ll bring it to him in a bowl so he can lap it up.

I chuckle as I watch the color drain from the human’s face upon reading the menu. Marty notices, too, before speaking. “Sorry, Samuel. This here’s an herbivore-exclusive restaurant. Ya won’t find any burgers or chicken breasts on that menu. Though… humans are omnivorous, so you’re okay with that, right?”

The skinnie gulps. “Y-yeah. I’m… okay with that…” He ain’t fretting over the lack of meat options. It’s the price that’s bothering him. And I intend to milk that for all it’s worth.

The waiter returns with a bottle of wine, showcasing its name and vintage to us before gently pouring it into the glasses in front of Marty and I. Water from a pitcher finds its way into the skinnie’s glass. Shame. As our server asks us for our lunch orders, I can’t help but wear a smile of self-satisfaction as I deliver my words. “I’ll have the Salade d’Eden. Extra fern leaves, extra ginkgo. Please and thank you.”

The waiter offers a polite nod before turning to Marty whose mouth now hangs open in my direction. He shakes away the surprise before glancing back at his menu as though he’s never seen it before in his life. “... I’ll get the Panthalassa, no tomatoes, and easy on the dressing, please.”

The rest of the color has drained from the skinnie’s face. He stutters. “Umm… I–I’ll just have the Caesar salad, sir. Th–thank you.”

With another reserved yet gracious bow, our server disappears into the kitchen, clutching the menus he collected before departing. I can’t help but smirk at the situation, the little sh*t who gave me such a headache yesterday now staring at his hands in his lap. He might have ordered the cheapest item on the menu for himself, but that thirty bucks isn’t gonna cover our food. Hell, my salad alone is gonna come to over fifteen smackers. He can dip into that “sign-on bonus” that Charles foolishly gave him to cover the excess, and he’d better leave a good tip, too.

“So, Samuel…” Marty’s voice causes my grin to fade. “Tell us a little about yourself. Like… oh, for starters, you mind if we call you ‘Sam’?”

I feel my lip curl. I won’t be calling him anything but “worthless”. Worthless stammers out a reply. “Y–yeah. That’s fine. I don’t mind Sam.”

Marty smiles, offering the skinnie far too much grace. “Well, Sam, tell us about yourself.”

“Uhh… well, I dunno what there really is to tell. I’m a loading dock–” He stops before his cheeks flush. Disgusting. “O–oh. I mean, I w–was… well, you know… you guys were…”

“Relax, buddy. You don’t gotta be so nervous. We’re gonna be coworkers after all. How long were you workin’ at Sal’s before Charles hired ya?”

I lean back in my chair and cross my arms, entirely disinterested in the conversation. The skinnie answers Marty. “... Almost nine months.”

“Hey, that’s pretty respectable. I bet Sal was pretty shocked that you flew the coop so suddenly?”

The lump of flesh called a nose on that creature’s face scrunches slightly and his brow furrows. “Actually… since you mention it, he wasn’t surprised at all. I told him this morning and he said he was… aware. Wished me luck and signed my time card for my last paycheck before shaking my hand and sending me off to… well, to the Herdsters office.”

Marty nods. “Ah, sure. Makes sense. I bet Charles called him and let him know. Remember, Sal’s a member of our union, too. I’m sure he’ll be a bit sad to lose a hard worker, but you’re movin’ up in the world now, kid!” I do my best to keep from retching as a slight smile tugs at the skinnie’s face. “So what else with you? Got a wife or kids?”

“No. No kids. An ex-wife, but that’s ancient history. I, uh…” He scratches the back of his neck. “I did start seein’ this gal. Hoping things work with her.” Another troglodyte like himself, no doubt. “What about you, Marty?”

Marty grins. “Got myself a beautiful wife of two years, and our firstborn is on the way. Less than a month out from her due date, and lemme tell ya, they only get more beautiful when they’re pregnant. O’course, she’s got a bit of a mood on her some mornings, but I get that she’s carrying quite a hefty burden inside of her!” The two share a nauseating smile. “Pierce here knows. He’s got a wife and two ki–”

My palm slams into the table, causing the dinnerware to clatter and Marty’s words to cut short. His eyes widen at me in bewilderment, but I wordlessly communicate everything I need to with the glare I fire at him.

The silence I commanded is interrupted by the waiter as he proffers a plate adorned with various salads to each of us. The one laid before me is heaping and exquisite, each exotic leaf and frond perfectly washed and sparkling with delectable oils and seasoning. It’s the crown jewel item at this establishment, and well worth the hefty price it commands. Marty’s selection looks delicious as well, and even the meager plate set before the human, though about half the size of mine and Marty’s, is likely going to be the best salad that lump of flesh has ever eaten.

I savor each bite, basking in the richness of both texture and flavor. I love Bianca’s cooking to death, but even she couldn’t pull off a salad this complex. The ginkgo truly brings the artistry of it all together, forming taste combinations that–

“I’ve got a dog. Big fluffy white fella named Saxon. He’s a sheepdog and about as smart as a box of rocks, but he’s a lovable guy.”

The skinnie’s words cause me to stop mid-chew and shift my smile of appreciation for this luxurious meal into a grimace of annoyance and disgust. He wasn’t speaking to me, of course, but his words grate in my ears all the same. I can’t even have one nice thing without a f*cking human ruining it.

Marty smiles at the skinnie, finishing his own mouthful of salad before replying. “Is that so? Tina’s super allergic to most of those furry creatures so we never had any pets. It’ll make things awkward when our little boy or girl gets to the age when they end up wantin’ a puppy for Christmas!”

The two chuckle and carry on with their meals and small talk. I finish my lunch in silence and repulsion, opting to continue not humoring the fleshbag who interrupted my culinary delight. As the other two place the last bites of their own food into their mouths, the waiter returns with a slender black check presenter adorned with a golden inlay of the restaurant’s name. He sets it on the table, bows and departs again. I glance down at it, then at the skinnie whose smile has fallen away once again as he flips it open to review the damage.

Well, that’s enough fun for me. The check’s his problem now. I rise from the table, rolling my shoulders and cracking my back in the process. “Thanks for lunch, skinnie, even though it’s Charles’s money payin’ for it. Hopefully you can do some simple math to figure out the tip our waiter is owed.” I shoot the human a grin, letting him know where he stands on this totem pole. He gives a shaky nod before fishing out his wallet; Marty only frowns at me.

I stroll back toward the car, the doorman once again opening the colossal portal to the scorching outdoors. This heat wave is gonna cause problems, I can just tell. It’s already an air conditioner repairman’s wet dream with how hard those units are having to work. The valet brings my car around again and I hand him a buck. Fun as it’d be to make the skinnie pay for this, too, I just don’t feel like interacting with him anymore. I know I’ll have to, but I’d prefer to keep as much distance between myself and the little scab as possible.

Truthfully, I’d prefer he be dead, but we can’t always get what we want in this life.

A minute or so later, Marty and the skinnie emerge from the restaurant and we all pile into my Cadillac. The next several hours are business as usual: rolling from union partner to union partner, exchanging pleasantries, chatting about the weather and the damn good season the Yankees have been having, and collecting union dues. Marty seems a little more on edge today than he normally would be, and a little less friendly with the clients we visit. The skinnie stays in the car.

Around four thirty in the afternoon, Marty and I step out of a jewelry store and back onto the frying pan sidewalk. The owner had offered me a silver necklace with a small half-moon pendant to give to my wife, free of charge. I told him that Bianca’s got plenty of neck adornments already, but volunteered Marty’s wife for the gift. He obliged, throwing in a clasp extender to accommodate the diplodocus woman’s thicker appendage.

I glance toward my car, parked about two blocks away; parking in this part of the neighborhood is always rough, so we’re lucky we even got that. Marty holds the small box in his hand, looking down at it with a vacant expression. I give him a tap on the arm and a smile. “I’m sure Tina is gonna love that.”

His eyes snap up to me. “What the hell is your problem, Pierce?”

I step back. “Whoah, where is this coming from all of a sudden? What did I say?”

He jabs a finger down the sidewalk in the direction of my car. “You’ve been nothing but cruel to Sam today, same as you were with Eggsy.”

My confusion shifts to irritation. “What’s your point?”

“My point is, Pierce, that he is our coworker. What was that bullsh*t with lunch, huh?”

I shrug. “What? Charles paid for it–”

“The bill came to almost forty dollars. Charles gave him enough money to buy ten reasonable lunches, but you decided to haul us to one of the fanciest herbi-restaurants in the entire city.”

“So? The skinnie had sign-on money to cover the rest.”

Marty shakes his head. “That was a sh*tty thing for you to do and you know it. And as far as I’m concerned, you owe me for the remaining part of that bill that I covered for you.”

“You… why would you do that?”

“Because I’m not interested in being Sam’s enemy, Pierce. Like it or not, he’s gonna be working with us for a while. You sticking him with huge lunch checks that you ran up and leaving him sitting in your back seat sweating his ass off is gonna earn you an enemy.”

I click my tongue. “Truthfully, I’d prefer he was in a ditch instead of my back seat.”

Marty’s arms go up in a show of flabbergast. “That’s exactly what I’m f*ckin’ talking about! You’re not even treating Sam like he’s alive! When is it gonna get through your skull that he’s a person just like you or me?”

My lip curls into a scowl. “He isn’t like you or me. He is a skinnie. He is rotten to his core, intrinsically and genetically. Hell, why do you think crime rates are so high with–”

“Pierce, I love you like a brother, but you need to shut the f*ck up with this. I don’t give a sh*t about statistics or what happened in your past. We’re treating Sam like a coworker until he proves otherwise. Everything I’m seeing from him so far leads me to believe he’s a good guy and he’s gonna be a hard worker, if we give him the chance.”

I laugh. “Sure! He’ll be innocent and charming until we turn our backs for one second, at which point he’ll dart down the road with a briefcase full of cash, just like Eggsy did!”

Both of our voices have been raising incrementally. Marty’s is practically a shout at this point. “He ain’t Eggsy! Eggsy f*cked up, and got did in for it! You’re accusing Sam of guilt before he’s even done anything wrong!”

My eyes flare. “What about the money in the alley, huh?! That little prick admitted himself that he woulda ran off with it if I hadn’t caught him!”

“Oh, for crying out loud, Pierce! Put yourself in his shoes, why don’t you? If you were a human, piss broke, working a sh*t job and trying to woo a gal, you wouldn’t take an opportunity like that if it was presented to you?”

I straighten my back. “Unlike skinnies, I have honor and integrity.”

Marty’s eyes roll. “Yeah, sure, Pierce. You’d fork over that fortune to some organization you don’t even know, that has employees like you that hate every f*ckin’ human they see, pointin’ guns at ‘em and talkin’ about how much they want ‘em dead.” He jabs an accusatory finger at me to emphasize his point. “You want Sam to turn out to be a thieving, backstabbing son of a bitch like you’ve already got him figured to be? Keep treating him like you are. See how that goes for you. Maybe after he cuts your throat with his caveman knife made of bone he’ll spare me, seeing as I actually think he might be worth the f*ckin’ air he breathes.”

Before I can respond, he spins on his heel and storms down the sidewalk toward the car. I see his head shaking and catch glimpses of his lips moving, but whatever he’s muttering is carried off in the other direction by the scalding breeze.

A moment goes by before I follow after him, mind awash with annoyance and disdain. He still doesn’t get it. His heart is too soft. He knows what I did, what I had to do, even why I did it… but he still sympathizes. His hand ain’t been bit by the striped cat hard enough yet to know you never put your hand near a striped cat. Mine has.

We take our seats in the front of the car again; I jam the key in the ignition and begin rolling toward our next destination. The skinnie looks to Marty and I with a weak smile, dabbing at the sweat on his brow with a handkerchief. “How’d everything go?”

Marty tosses the envelope with the jewelry store’s dues into the glove compartment before slamming it shut. I know he’s upset, but I’d still prefer he didn’t damage my car. “It was fine.” He pauses, glancing down at the small rectangular box still in his hand before leaning a shoulder over the seat and facing the back seat. “Hey. You said you were datin’ a gal, right?”

The skinnie blinks a few times. “Uh… yeah. I’m supposed to see her again tomorrow night.”

Marty grins. “That’s swell. Here. I think she’ll like this.” He tosses the package back to the human who catches it in surprise. My eyes shoot toward Marty; he just shrugs at me. “Tina’s got enough of that sh*t, too. Plus she was never much of a fan of stuff like suns and moons on her jewelry.”

The skinnie’s eyes widen as he pulls open the box to view its contents. He withdraws the thin silver chain, staring at the small, sparkling crescent moon that dangles from it. “H–holy sh*t. This is… it’s really nice! Are… are you sure I can have this?”

A wink from Marty betrays the tone of his words. “Well… that’s gonna cost you, actually.” The skinnie glances back up to the diplodocus; he shifts and sheepishly reaches for his wallet. Marty chuckles and waves a hand. “Not your money, you rube! You’re gonna come in with us during our next stop.” He glances at his wristwatch. “Probably our last stop of the day. I’m spent.”

My fingers tighten on the steering wheel. The skinnie stammers. “Y–you want me to come with you? What do you need me to do?”

Even though his posture has straightened in his seat again, Marty still faces the human with the aid of his lengthy and pliable neck. “Just watch what we do. If someone addresses you, be polite, but don’t get rattled. We mostly service dinosaur-owned businesses, but they shouldn’t give you any trouble. If they do, they’ll have to answer to me and Pierce.” He steals a glance at me with the utterance of my name. I don’t reply, but I watch the skinnie squirm slightly through the rearview mirror.

It only takes a few more minutes to arrive at the last location on today’s checklist, Murphy’s 8-Ball Lounge. The place is a bit of a dive near the edge of a rough neighborhood and tends to draw in an even rougher crowd. We’ll see if the skinnie can keep his head. If not, hey, it wasn’t my fault. Charles would have nothin’ on me.

I park us near the front and we all make our way up to the entrance. Cheap black paint chips and flakes off of the door, with thin, clumpy strands being flitted by the wind as I pull it open. Inside, the stagnant souls of cigarettes burned by the tens of thousands are caked into every surface. Six pool tables rest underneath six sets of light fixtures with many of their bulbs burned out and ignored. A dingy bar at the back with a poorly stocked shelf of dusty liquor bottles is helmed by a twitchy deinonychus, nervously glancing at the three of us as we walk down the center aisle of pool tables toward him. I’ve seen him before, but he isn’t Murphy. He’s just the bartender, and I never caught his name.

The telltale CLACK of pool balls draws my attention to the fella who appears to be the only patron in the establishment at this time, a rotund tyrannosaurus who struggles with the pool cue given his stubby arms made even stubbier by his stomach. He shoots me a toothy grin before shifting around the table to line up another shot.

There’s no sign of the owner, only these two gentlemen. I lean against the bar before addressing the deinonychus. “Is Murphy around?”

The bartender’s eyes skitter from me to my partner who’s stepped up next to me at the bar. Marty withdraws and lights a cigarette, adding one more spirit to the ghosts of nicotine past that clog every pore of this establishment. The skinnie lags behind by several paces, glancing around at the varied but sparse pop culture decorations adorning the walls. Before the deinonychus can answer, a voice calls out from the opening door that leads to the back office.

“Yeah, I’m here. How you doin’, Pierce?”

I give him a nod. “Not too bad, Murphy. Slow night tonight?” I glance around to emphasize my words.

Murphy nods, scratching the bottom of his baryonyx chin. “Yeah, well. We’ve been havin’ more of those lately.” Another clatter of pool balls.

“Sorry to hear it, buddy. Hope things pick up for you.”

He doesn’t respond to me, instead looking past me to the skinnie standing aimlessly in the center of the pool hall. “What about you, pal? You lookin’ for some pool? Buy a couple drinks, you get a few games on the house.”

Before our extra baggage can reply, Marty clues Murphy in. “He’s actually with us. Guess you could say he’s getting some on the job training as we do our rounds.” His smile isn’t returned by the baryonyx.

“Izzat so? Huh. Guess weak species stick together.”

I lift an eyebrow. “Come again, pal?”

He shrugs. “Nothin’. It’s nice that the Herdsters is embracing diversity. Wouldn’t want the best choices for the job handling the hardest work, after all.” Murphy glances at the talons on his fingertips.

I rub my forehead in annoyance. He’s made off-hand remarks like this before, and it’s taken a lot of self-control for me to keep from punching him in the throat for it. Skinnies? Yes, they are a subservient and inferior species. But claiming that carnivores are better than herbivores? Go three rounds in a ring with me and see who comes out on top, buddy.

Marty tries to rein the conversation back in. “Murphy, you know why we’re here, and we’ve had a long day. You mind if we handle your membership dues so we can get outta your hair?”

“Well, I been meaning to talk to you fellas about that. About my… membership.” I frown, already knowing where Murphy is going with this. “Y’see, times are pretty tough right now. As you can see, we’ve been having a lot of ‘slow nights’. Enough that I’m a bit short.”

CLACK. “How short, Murphy?”

He flexes his lower jaw left and right, eliciting a loud pop from the joint. “All the way short. In fact, I think I’m gonna withdraw from the Herdsters. Don’t seem to be much point in membership for a little establishment like mine, what with times bein’ so tough and all.”

I sigh. “Murphy, if you want to withdraw from the union, you gotta take that up with the Local 237. I don’t have the paperwork for that in my back pocket.” I shake my head. “It also woulda been nice to get a heads up on your plan to back out so that we didn’t waste a trip out here.”

The baryonyx’s yellow eyes narrow. “Nah, it’s not a wasted trip. I was actually hoping you fellas might help me with some back dues. Y’know, seein’ as we really ain’t been gettin’ our money’s worth.” I straighten up, as does Marty. We both realize the situation that is likely developing. “You two have a lucrative day today?”

I speak through gritted teeth. “Half day, actually. You chose a bad one to make a play like this, Murphy.”

He shrugs. “What can ya do? Guess we’ll just have to ma–”

“PIERCE, LOOK OUT!”

The skinnie’s voice causes me to spin around, narrowly dodging away from the colossal jaws that just snapped in my direction. The goddamn tyrannosaurus is with them, too, and he just about took my f*cking head off. He stumbles forward, his trajectory having anticipated making contact with me. He rights his balance before spinning around and dashing toward me again.

I hear Marty yell something but his voice quickly turns to a choked gargle as the deinonychus leaps onto the bar and wraps his arms around my partner’s neck, squeezing as hard as he can and leaning back to leverage his weight into the choke hold. Marty grasps at the deinonychus and flails his head around, gasping for air and knocking several glasses to the floor in a loud crash.

I duck away from the tyrannosaurus’s second bite, avoiding that one just as narrowly as the first. If he catches me in those teeth, I’m done for; no living dinosaur can overpower a t-rex’s jaws. He doesn’t lose his balance like before, resetting before attempting a third lunge, turning his head sideways to grasp at my midsection. His teeth catch the bare edge of my suit jacket as I leap back, loudly ripping the fabric. He glances at the bit of non-flesh in his maw before spitting it on the ground and charging once more.

I have to do something. His teeth are killer, but the rest of him is…

Before he can make contact, my tail cracks out from behind me, one of the spike tips tagging him in the back of the knee mid-lunge. The puncturing impact makes him stumble uncontrollably; he lifts his head and rotates his stubby arms to try to regain balance. Just the opening I need.

I duck down, planting my feet firmly as he topples toward me. I jam one hand into his stomach and the other into the large portion of scales where his lower jaw meets his neck, using his momentum to heave him overhead. He lets out a holler as he flips over in the air, aided by my grip before slamming back-first into the felt of a pool table. His tail slaps the overhead lights free of their fixture, spewing shattered glass in all directions. The table snaps in two, crashing into the floor and launching pool balls straight up into the air. The tyrannosaurus gasps; I assist him by raining several kicks into the top of his head until he goes limp.

Shooting my attention back to Marty, I see that he’s lurched forward and managed to loosen the bartender’s grip around his neck by slamming the clinging deinonychus into the bar. Both dinosaurs stumble and gasp for breath; I take several steps toward them and withdraw my pistol only in time for the claws of a baryonyx to rend themselves across my hand, sending both the weapon and my blood sliding down the walkway behind me.

Murphy shrieks as he lashes out repeatedly with his talons. I do my best to deflect his attacks but more gashes open on my arms and more of my blood spatters across the ground. I try to strike at him with my tail but he anticipates the attack, slapping it away harmlessly with his own before lunging again.

As he brings his deadly claws down again, I see a brief opening. I push my left arm into his grip, feeling the searing heat of my flesh being ripped open again, but force his stance wide before bringing my right fist thundering into the bottom of his jaw. Murphy’s teeth loudly clatter together in response to my uppercut and his eyes gloss over. He rocks back on his feet before crumpling.

I breathe heavily, staring down at the incapacitated baryonyx before turning back to Marty. He’s regained his composure in time to clobber the bartender in the face with his stocky fists. After a solid couple hits, he hoists the smaller dino upward and launches him back behind the bar, the ear-splitting crash of dozens of liquor bottles filling the room. My partner stumbles, catching one of the bar stools with his arms as he keeps gasping for breath. Aside from our mutual labored breathing, the room is silent.

I step toward him, clutching the worst of the ribbons of scales that dangle from my forearms, trying to prevent as much further blood from escaping me as possible. “I… I told you… that you gotta quit smoking…”

His neck lifts with an effort and he offers me a weak smile. “Haah… haah… shut up… Pierce…”

I try to return the smile but a rustling of glass shards causes my eyes to shoot open. “MARTY!”

Too late. The deinonychus rears up with a full liquor bottle in hand and clubs Marty over the head. The sickening crack of unbroken glass on bone portents the colossal thud of his body hitting the ground. His neck topples like a loosed rope before his head collides with the carpet. Whether he’s dead or not, I don’t know.

The bartender’s furious gaze fires in my direction, half-blinded by glass shards jutting from his forehead and cheek. He screeches past the oozing blood as he leaps onto the bar and hurls himself toward me.

My tail was already wound up before his feet left the bar.

Within an arm’s reach of me, the sides of the thick spikes on my tail tip collide with his head like a couple of baseball bats, causing his neck to bend violently and abruptly. The combination of his momentum and the whip-crack of my tail brings his screech to an unceremonious, gurgling end as his limp body crashes into the floor. His visible eye drains of color as his mouth hangs open, offering only a soundless, horrified scream.

My attention turns back to Marty. He’s still lying motionless. f*ck… don’t be dead, Marty. I can’t lose another–

Scorching pain fires through my spine as teeth clamp into my back between two of my plates. I try to spin around but dual sets of talons rake down my back and shoulder, causing me to stumble and fall to a knee. My tail instinctively plants itself flat behind me, keeping me upright as best it can as Murphy looms over me, my blood dripping from his jaws and hands.

“You just had to make this difficult, didn’t you? You couldn’t just hand over the f*ckin’ money? Now I gotta clean all this up, and dispose of two…” He glances over at the lifeless deinonychus before shaking his head. “... three dead bodies.”

I clutch at my shoulder. My fingers do little to stymie the bleeding. “The… Herdsters are… gonna find out… about this…”

“I’m not worried about the Herdsters. I’ll be long gone by the time they figure anythin’ out. And so will you and your pal. Just in a different manner of speakin’.” He laughs. “I never did like you, Pierce. An herbivore actin’ tough is embarrassing. Sure, you get a lucky shot in every now and again…” He glances at the bartender’s body again. “... but at the end of the day, the food chain remains the same. It’s simple genetics.”

My vision starts to blur. It’s getting awfully difficult to hold my head up. Not that it’ll be a concern for much longer.

He rolls his shoulder and pops his jaw again. “Enough yacking. It’s the end of the line for–”

CRACK!

Murphy stumbles forward slightly, eyes wide in surprise. I shake the bleariness from my own eyes to make out what just happened. The splintered top half of a pool cue slides across the floor. Murphy slowly turns around to lock gazes with… the skinnie. He holds the other broken half of the pool cue, staring at it as though it’s the last thing he’ll ever see. Truthfully, it probably will be, along with Murphy’s jaws closing around his head. He looks back up at the baryonyx.

Murphy roars as he lunges. “YOU LITTLE FU–”

The human hunches down and rams the broken end of his makeshift spear into Murphy’s leg just above the knee, the now sharpened wood piercing straight through his scales. The baryonyx howls as he crumples to his knees, clutching at the cue that stands upright out of his leg, blood beginning to trickle from its sides to the floor.

Fueled by nothing but adrenaline and rage, I lurch forward, wrapping both hands around Murphy’s head. He screams and grasps at my forearms, but not in time. With a loud snap, I rotate his neck much farther than it can naturally go. His arms fall slack at his side; as I release my grasp, his body collapses to the ground, half of a pool cue still jutting from his leg.

I consider following him down, slumping back on my laurels and doing my best to remain conscious. I took a pounding and lost a lot of blood. I also don’t know if that tyrannosaurus is down for the count. If not, he could easily finish me off if I do decide to take a nap on this comfortable looking carpet.

My hazy eyes find the human again. He stares down at Murphy’s now lifeless body with a look of shock. He stumbles backward, nearly tripping over the maw of the still unconscious t-rex before the back of his shoe clatters into something small and metallic. He glances at it before stooping down to retrieve…

My revolver.

He stares at the device, holding it before him like a treasure hunter who just found a golden goblet. He brings his hands to the proper resting position to wield the weapon, finger on the trigger, spinning toward the tyrannosaurus and aiming it in his direction. He remains like this for several seconds, but he doesn’t shoot and the t-rex doesn’t stir. He then focuses on Murphy, aiming the gun at his body while sliding his feet cautiously in its direction. Finally, his eyes come to rest on… me.

His breathing is erratic. His eyes are wide and his pupils are dilated. He’s even more pale than when I ordered that fifteen dollar salad for lunch. The barrel of the gun slowly rises.

So this is how it happens. Done in by the skinnie I was so close to executing not even twenty four hours ago. I was right. Of course I was right. Marty’s bleeding heart is gonna end in both of us bleeding our last in this dingy pool hall. Well, at least I’ll die knowing I was… I was…

The revolver rests inches away from me… but it faces the wrong way. The human holds its barrel, extending the grip to me. “C’mon, Pierce. We gotta get out of here. I… I think Marty is in bad shape, and I’m not gonna be able to get him back to the car by myself.”

I blink. In response, the human gives the revolver a small shake, beckoning me to accept it. I oblige, now taking my turn to gaze at it as though it’s a long-lost relic. The human moves past me and over to Marty, glancing at the dead deinonychus before bending over to Marty’s head and clapping a gentle hand to his cheek. He tries to beckon Marty back to consciousness… and it seems to work, albeit very slowly. With labored movements, Marty’s neck begins shifting and his arms draw inward. He mutters something incoherent.

“Pierce, please. I need your help to get Marty up.”

I’m not exactly in tip-top shape myself here, human, but let me get right on that request. I struggle to bring one knee up, planting a palm on it and sucking in air before hoisting myself upward. My legs buckle, but my tail works overtime and keeps me upright as my other shoe flattens itself on the carpet beneath me. I shake away the dizziness and turn toward the two of them. Marty’s at least gotten his arms underneath himself and his neck halfway airborne again, but his head still rests on the ground.

“P… Pierce… wh… did we…” His words are slurred and broken. Whether he’s concussed or not, I don’t know.

“C’mon, buddy. Save that energy for walkin’.”I use the little remaining strength I have to toss one of Marty’s arms over my shoulder. The human does his best with Marty’s other arm, but nearly crumbles underneath the diplodocus’s weight. His assistance is… not a complete waste. Together the three of us take small steps toward the door, Marty’s neck still dangling loosely, his head very nearly dragging on the ground despite his body being mostly upright.

The setting sun is still high enough in the sky to dazzle me as we push the door open. No pedestrians are nearby, so there’s no one to take account of the two battered dinosaurs and one unscathed human that exit a pool hall and bar that’s now host to two dead bodies. With a struggle, we get to my car. I decide to help Marty into the back seat so he can lay down, though given his size it’s not a very comfortable bed. He still graciously accepts my offer without complaint, immediately closing his eyes and breathing heavily.

We’re gonna have to get ourselves to a hospital. I fish out my keys and begin stumbling over to the driver’s seat, but the human’s hand stops me. “Pierce… look, man. I know you don’t like me, but… you’re not in any condition to drive. Let me handle it, I’ll get you guys to a doctor.”

My eyes flare in his direction, but that’s about all I can do in protest. I don’t like it, but… he is right. I’m barely staying on my feet as it is. I’d probably wrap my Cadillac around a light pole before we make it two blocks down the road. The keys land in his open palm. He nods before moving around the vehicle to the driver’s side door. I slide into the passenger seat, immediately closing my eyes as the door latches shut beside me.

I’m too exhausted to pay attention to his driving. I’m sure I could find things to criticize about it, or worry myself about letting a human drive my precious vehicle, but the only sensations I feel are the quiet rumble of the engine and the gentle hum of the pavement beneath our wheels.

“Pierce?”

I just wanna sleep, but I’m too tired to tell him off. I reply without opening my eyes. “... Yeah?”

“Was that… uhh… was that an average day at the office?”

I smile. “... No, Samuel. No, it was not.”

Chapter 10: Samuel

Chapter Text

The soft light generated by the incandescent bulbs high above my head illuminates the skin on my folded hands. They rest on my lap, intertwined together and entirely unmoving. At this point, I’ve intimately learned every crevice, fold and recess of the flesh overlapping my muscle and bone, because my eyes haven’t gone anywhere but my folded hands for nearly half an hour.

I… killed a man.

I mean, I didn’t break his neck myself, but I stabbed that baryonyx in the leg, and that gave Pierce the opening to…

My hands finally release themselves, rising to my forehead. My fingers run through my hair, upheaving glistening droplets of sweat that seem endless. Even this medical clinic waiting room is a damned oven in this days-long heat wave. I shudder involuntarily, suppressing the urge to scream as the words keep repeating themselves in my head.

I killed a man. I killed a man. I killed—

“Hey, kiddo. How ya holdin’ up?”

The sudden voice and clap on my back from a colossal, firm palm cause me to jump. I spin toward my assailant, raising my arms reflexively to protect against what my brain convinces me is about to be a lethal assault, but instead I’m greeted by the warm smile of Charles Rossi. He isn’t offended by my skittish and defensive gesture in the slightest.

“It’s alright, Samuel. Everythin’s gonna be fine. Just take a breath, okay?”

I do as he asks, releasing my posture and drawing in slow, steady breaths to calm my heartbeat. My shock quickly shifts to embarrassment and fear; I didn’t even notice the triceratops sit next to me. If he had been an enemy, perhaps that t-rex that we left out cold or some friend of Murphy’s who came across the carnage we caused… I could be dead right now.

As dead as that bartender. As dead as Murphy.

Except for the two of us, the small waiting area is empty. The last thing Pierce said to me before he passed out in the car was the address of this small clinic. I would have taken the two of them to the Metropolitan Hospital, but I assume he had a good reason for wanting to come here. My best guess is they know the folks who run this clinic, and maybe those folks wouldn’t ask questions.

Charles clears his throat. “I spoke with the doctor. Pierce is still under. He lost a good amount of blood, but he’s stitched and bandaged up. Martin is awake, and the doctor is convinced that he doesn’t have a concussion. However, the nasty lump on his head seems to be preventing him from recalling most of what transpired.”

I blink. It’s the first time I’d heard the diplodocus that’s been extending kindness to me referred to as anything but Marty. My mind wanders to the small box containing that crescent moon pendant that he gave me. Told me to give it to the gal I’m dating. I feel my cheeks redden slightly, but before I can think on it any further Charles continues.

“Samuel. What, exactly, happened today?”

My eyes meet his again. He wears an expression of stern authority. I can’t tell if there’s concern behind those purple orbs, but there’s no doubt in my mind that he wants me to answer, and answer truthfully.

I oblige his request, proffering every detail I remember from the moment we walked into Murphy’s 8-Ball Lounge until our conversation here. I recall the dingy lighting, smoke-caked surfaces and surly demeanors of all three dinosaurs that were… handled. The bartender’s erratic movements, the tyrannosaurus’s constant glances at Pierce before he crept forward to attack, and Murphy’s lackadaisical attitude leading up to their assault.

I told Charles that I called out to warn Pierce of the t-rex’s lunge, but after that… I hid. I was terrified. Creatures twice my size were pummeling and lacerating one another not even twenty feet away. I didn’t have a gun, and it was literally my first day on this job. Hell, it still is my first day. What was I supposed to do against power and fury like what I witnessed?

It wasn’t until the fighting was nearly done that I was able to find my feet. The tyrannosaurus was unconscious. So was Marty, though I worried that he might have been more than unconscious given how hard that bottle smacked into his skull, and the deinonychus bartender’s neck had been broken mid-flight toward Pierce. But Murphy, who had been briefly knocked out, was back on his feet and tore into Pierce’s exposed back, bringing him to his knees. The baryonyx was gloating over Pierce when I stepped out from behind one of the unbroken pool tables.

I lower my head in shame before speaking honestly to my boss of exactly one day. “I ran toward the door. Murphy was so distracted with Pierce that he didn’t see or hear me. My hand was on it, ready to push it open and sprint down the street in any direction, to end up any place but there. I… I was scared, Charles. I knew that if I tried to intervene, I’d end up dead.”

He looks at me without emotion; neither sympathy nor scorn reside in his eyes. “I shall guess by the fact that the three of you are still alive that you did not run.”

“No. I didn’t. And for the life of me, I can’t tell you why.” Going against every fiber of my survival instinct, I speak candidly. “Pierce hates my guts. He doesn’t view me as anything but an inferior species. He spent all day making snide remarks and instilling a sense of worthlessness in me. Marty’s actually respectful and even showed me a kind gesture, but he clearly takes his marching orders from Pierce and from you. And you, Charles…” My conscience screams at me to dash toward the exit of this clinic, to escape from this place like I so desperately wanted to escape the pool hall, but I clench my fists and press on. “You offered me a job and more money than I’d ever made before, when refusing the offer would mean my death. What choice did I have? And now that I’m your employee, you’ve saddled me with the man who was holding a gun to my head just last night and talking about how much he wanted my brains on the gravel beneath my knees. So why the hell did I grab a pool cue, break it over Murphy’s back and skewer him in the leg? Why’d I save Pierce and Marty’s lives when my own seems to be of so little value to them, and to you?”

Charles crosses his arms and lowers his eyelids. I watch the gears turn in his head as he processes my words. His breathing is steady, giving the illusion of a monk deep in meditative thought. After a moment, his eyes reopen and refocus on me. “I have risen to the rank I presently hold within the Herdsters for one reason, and one reason alone: I am a good judge of character. Those who report to me, those who respect me, those with whom I break bread and share drinks… they are all people who I value and respect in return. I do not offer respect to just anyone, and you are someone with whom I am still very unacquainted. But there’s a reason I offered you this job. It wasn’t to keep you quiet, or keep you on a leash. It’s because I could tell that you are a good man, and someone capable of loyalty and respect.”

I glance at the floor, pondering his words. Is that all true? I mean, I think I’m a good person, but… “I… killed a man, Charles. How does that make me a good man?”

He purses his lips and lowers his brow. The upward-curved horn on the tip of his snout glistens in the soft illumination of the room. “You acted in self defense. You protected the lives of Pierce and Martin. It was a regrettable situation, and I am sorry you were put into that spot, but the nature of the world we live in is that sometimes we must defend ourselves against wickedness.” I fidget in my chair before he continues. “The Herdsters offer a valuable service to many organizations all around not just this city, but the entire country. We are an organization of justice that fights for the rights of those who have no voice by themselves. We stand against the tyranny of employers who would underpay, overwork and abuse their labor force. Because of that… we make enemies. There are people who do not want us to succeed, and we must occasionally defend ourselves from those attacks.”

I think back to Murphy and his reasoning for attacking us. It seemed like he just wanted the money we had collected, but… was there more to it than that? And more importantly… “Is that what happened with that human in the alley? Eggsy?”

Charles’s expression almost imperceptibly sours. He lets out a sigh. “What happened with Egbert was regrettable, and Pierce acted out of line. Egbert should have been brought in and questioned, not handled in such an inelegant manner on the street. We are not murderers or criminals. But… to answer your question more directly: yes. Egbert was an enemy of the Herdsters. He tried to steal money not from us, but from those that we serve. That was money from people like Sal Fontana, dues they contribute so that we can help them when they need our help.”

I bite my lip, feeling my hands tremble in my lap. “Charles… I just don’t know if I can do this. After today, after what I did… I don’t know if I’ve got it in me.”

He places a gentle hand on my shoulder and offers a warm smile. “Samuel. Despite what you may think, you aren’t being forced to work for me. I want you to be my employee, but you aren’t a prisoner here.”

“But you’ve got my address. My social security number. What would stop you from—“

He lowers his snout, peering at me as though over the top of glasses he does not wear. “Are you someone who’s trying to bring harm to the Herdsters or our clients?”

“N-no, of course not.”

“Then there’s nothing for you to be worried about.” He rustles my shoulder slightly with the hand that still rests on it, clapping it once before withdrawing his arm. “I’d ask that you take the night to think it over, at least. If tomorrow comes around and you’re still convinced that this isn’t the path for you, I’ll call Sal and get you your old job back. I’ll even talk to him about getting you a raise, though I doubt you’ll make the same there as you would here, even with a pay bump.”

I do my best to return his smile. “Thank you, Charles. I’ll… think it over.”

He places his hands on his knees, hoisting himself up to his feet. With a few steps he crosses the waiting area, peering around the corner into one of the two small exam rooms. He gives who I presume to be the nurse in Pierce’s room a small wave and nod of acknowledgment before turning my way once more. “Regardless of what you might think of your character or your actions tonight, you saved the lives of these two men. You had the choice to run away in that pool hall… but you chose goodness and justice. That more than proves I was right in my assessment of you, Samuel. Have a good night.” With that, he pushes through the clinic’s exit toward the sunset-soaked street, the bell suspended above the door emitting a brassy jingle in his wake.

I resume peering at my clasped hands; they still tremble, but at least they’ve come somewhat under my control. After a few minutes, I rise from my seat, cautiously moving toward the same room Charles had poked his head into.

Pierce lies on an examination bed properly sized for his gargantuan form, close to eight feet long and about half as wide. His tail dangles off the side and the spikes on its tip rest on the linoleum floor. If it weren’t for the steady thrumming of the heart rate monitor attached to him, I’d mistake his motionless sleep for rigor mortis. Numerous sutures and bandages cover his arms and shoulders, many slightly discoloring themselves with the further leakage they prevent.

A compsognathus turns toward me, brushing the bangs that poke from beneath her nurse’s cap away from her cheek. “He’s still unconscious and likely will be for some time. We’re keeping Mr. De Luca here for the evening, too, as a precaution. You’re free to leave, though, Mr. Lawson.”

I give the nurse a nod before turning toward the door. Before I can leave the building, another voice catches my attention. It’s quieter and a bit more labored than normal. “Hey, Sam.”

I take a few more steps down the hall and peek through an open door to a second exam room. Marty lies on his side on another impressively-sized bed, holding an enormous ice pack to the top of his head. With his posture and long neck, it almost seems like he cradles his own face between his arms. I give a weak wave. “Hey, Marty. How you feelin’?”

He smiles with some effort. “Like I got hit over the f*ckin’ head with a bottle of booze. At least, that’s what I think happened. I can barely remember a damn thing.”

I step into the room. No nurse or doctor is present. “Yeah, that’s what happened. I thought bartenders were supposed to pour the drinks into glasses for ya, not clobber ya with the merchandise.”

He chuckles briefly, though the action clearly causes him discomfort. “Needless to say, I won’t be offering my patronage to that particular establishment no more.” He shifts the ice pack, briefly making visible the enormous lump underneath it. “Doctor said I ain’t concussed, but I sure as sh*t got a nasty headache.”

I offer him another smile. “Well, why don’t I let you get some rest? I—“

“Sam, listen. C’mere.” He releases the ice pack with one of his hands to beckon me over. I oblige, taking a few steps deeper into the room. “I heard what you said to Charles. This place ain’t exactly big, or sound proof.” My eyes widen, but he quickly waves a comforting hand. “Don’t worry about the staff here, they’re friends of the Herdsters. That’s why Pierce had you bring us to this clinic.”

He takes a deep breath before focusing his gaze intently on me. “What you did today… was a good thing. I was out cold for most of that fight, so I didn’t see you get the upper hand on Murphy, but if you hadn’t done what you did… I wouldn’t be here talkin’ to you right now. He’d have killed Pierce, then me.” He glances down at the floor between us regretfully. “I’m sorry that we put you in that spot. I knew Murphy was an asshole, but I didn’t in a million years think he’d be capable of trying to pull what he did, and if I had known, I wouldn’t have put you at risk like that.” His eyes focus on me again. “But now, with all things considered, I’m thankful you were there. If you weren’t… my little boy or girl would be growin’ up without a father.”

I try to offer him a smile but my lip quivers. Marty sighs before continuing. “I know this was a hell of a first day. And please believe me when I say, this is not the norm. We can get rough with folks, but only sometimes, and only when it’s absolutely necessary. Like Charles said to you, we’ll defend ourselves when it needs doing, but we aren’t thugs.” He shakes his head. “It’ll take some convincing to make you believe that after the way Pierce treated you, I know. And I’m sorry that he’s been so cruel to you. It’s just…” He purses his lips. “I don’t know that it’s my place to tell you this, but I don’t think he’ll ever tell you of his own accord. I’d ask that you keep this between us.”

He gestures with his head toward the open door behind me. Understanding his meaning, I reach behind myself and gently push it shut. Marty sighs again. “Pierce had a brother. His younger brother, Francisco. Called him ‘Franky’. Franky worked for the Herdsters, too. Pierce had gotten him a job doin’ mostly the same thing we do, collecting dues and helping out with pickets and functions as needed.” He frowns and his eyes go out of focus, looking beyond me to a memory. “He was a good guy. Reckless, and loud, sure… but he was a good guy. Always had a joke to crack, no matter the situation. And you could tell Pierce really loved him.”

The pieces slowly fall into place in my head before Marty even clarifies. He refocuses on me. “His brother was killed. And the man who killed him… was a human.”

Now my eyes go out of focus as I process what he just said. Before I get too far into my own head, Marty raises his free hand again. “I know that this isn’t a good excuse for him being the way he is. I don’t agree with his philosophy that humans are inferior to dinosaurs. I know things were different between our species not that many years ago, but if I needed any sort of convincing that humans are just as capable and worthwhile as us dinosaurs, you provided it today. And I really hope that Pierce sees that, too. I’m only telling you this because I believe that you’re a good man… and deep down, past all that bitterness and resentment he still harbors, I believe he’s a good man, too.”

I scratch the back of my neck as I consider his words. As quickly as I want to discard the excuse… can I say that I would be any different? If my younger brother was killed by a dinosaur—if I had one, that is—would I be forgiving and understanding, especially after how I’ve been treated by so many dinosaurs over the years?

Marty shifts the ice pack on his head again, snapping me out of my introspection. “Like I said, I don’t tell you any of this to expect you to give Pierce a pass for his sh*tty behavior. I just want you to know that his attitude is his own, and it doesn’t reflect how anyone else views you, myself included. I know people out there can be assholes, and I’m sure you’ve gotten burned your share of times. But… I hope that you’ll consider me a friend, seeing as I consider you a friend now.” He smiles genuinely and extends his free hand toward me.

I close the distance between us with one step and accept his handshake. “Thank you, Marty. I’d like that very much.”

His teeth become visible past his grin. “Alright, my ploy worked! Now that we’re friends, you gotta get me and Tina a present for our baby shower!” I blink in momentary confusion until his raspy chuckle clues me into the joke. I give him a light smack on the arm, earning another laugh followed by a whine. “Hey, no fair beatin’ up the injured guy!”

I shake my head and chuckle as I take a step back. “Speaking of, did your wife get told you’re here yet? Or Pierce’s… you did say he’s married, too, right?”

“Charles said he’s gonna give them a call for us. I told him to tell Tina not to worry, I’m just gonna spend the night here for observation, should be good to go by tomorrow. As for Pierce… well, Bianca might be comin’ by to visit him.”

I guess Bianca is Pierce’s wife. I nod to Marty. “Alright, Marty. Is there anything else I can do for you before I head home?”

He turns himself onto his back with a heave and a groan. “Could you ask the nurse to get me some more ice on your way out?”

“You got it.” I pull open the door to the room, fulfilling my new friend’s request with the nurse before heading toward the exit. Passing by the chairs in the waiting room, I notice a small rectangular package resting atop one. I scoop it up, recognition rapidly coming to me as I pull off its lid to reveal the crescent moon pendant that Marty had given me. I put two and two together; this wasn’t in here before, so Charles must have retrieved the day’s money from Pierce’s car and found this in the back seat while doing so. He didn’t know which of us it belonged to, so he just left it on the waiting room chair.

I hold the small silver moon in my hand, running a thumb over its smooth surface. A smile forms on my lips as I think about Aubrey for the first time in several hours. I remember the date I have with her tomorrow night, imagining the look on her face when I give this to her. Though… is it too soon to be giving her gifts like this? It’ll only be our second date, after all. My smile fades away as my conscience begins wrestling with itself as to the proper timetable of appropriate gift-giving during the courtship of a woman.

My feet carry me outside the clinic as I continue battling my id. I’m getting swept away with thoughts of Aubrey when I… after everything that happened today, happened. The words of both Charles and Marty ring in my head, but I still fight against the reality of my actions. You can make arguments that I acted in self defense or that I’m a “good man” until you run out of breath, but the fact remains… I helped kill a guy. Was his life worth less than Pierce and Marty’s? What about the bartender?

Several blocks down the sidewalk, I stop and stare at my reflection in a shop window. The man who looks back at me is the same one as before, the same one I see every morning in my bathroom mirror… but somehow, he looks different. More hardened. Like some piece of him was removed that can’t be given back. He tries his hardest to smile, but it doesn’t look genuine.

Is Aubrey going to want to be with a man like this?

My mind swirls with contradiction and confusion. On the one hand, Charles treated me with dignity and kindness and Marty offered me his friendship. On the other, I know that these men are capable of dealing in death, even witnessing it firsthand today. They claim to not be mobsters or murderers, that they only defend themselves and their clients… but if that’s so, what about Eggsy? Sure, he was stealing money, but did that mean he deserved to be shot dead in an alley? Why not report him to the police?

On top of that, Charles told me that I’m free to leave the Herdsters, but is that actually true? After what I’ve seen, would I ever truly be safe? If I decided to quit and go back to Sal’s, would I have to look over my shoulder, constantly dreading the bullet that would bring my story to a rapid close? Could I even flee the city to somewhere safe, or would I always be in danger? I mean, I don’t think their organization’s reach is quite Gorewellian, but Charles did say they operate in every major city. I might just be a loose end that’s easier to tie up with a tap to the back of my head.

And even if I could run away, getting safely to some backwater town where they couldn’t find me… that would mean giving up Aubrey, wouldn’t it? Why would she follow some guy she just met to another town? And wouldn’t I just be putting her at as much risk as myself?

I stare at the box in my hand again, imagining the crescent-moon pendant resting against her collar. A vision fills my mind of her devastated eyes staring at me as I tell her about my plans to run away, confused and questioning. Her hand wraps around the necklace before tearing it off, casting it on the ground as she curses at me for wasting her time and breaking her heart. I can only sit with my head hung, unable to tell her anything due to the danger it would put her in. She’d abandon me just like I’d be abandoning this God-forsaken city and the rotten mess I’ve gotten myself into.

It seems that I’m damned if I do, and I’m damned if I don’t. At the very least, I still have a date with her tomorrow night, and despite the scrape at that pool hall today I don’t have a mark on me. It’d make things a lot harder if I had to explain a black eye or broken nose to her on our date, and it’d be infinitely more awkward if I was dead.

Raptor Christ… I need a drink.

—

As Charles asked, I slept on it. And the next morning I found myself standing in the front lobby of the Herdsters building again. It was a restless night with a lot of things blasting around in my mind as I tried to sleep. Even the glass of rum I stopped for on the way home didn’t seem to alleviate my anxiety. The only notion that helped me find slumber was that I’d get to speak with Aubrey during our date. I coulda called her last night, but I figured it would be better to discuss things in person. I’m also uncertain as to how much I can reasonably tell her, but having someone to talk to about this stuff is better than nobody at all. As much as I love Saxon, the walking carpet isn’t exactly a conversationalist.

I aimlessly mill about for a few minutes before Marty pokes his head around a corner. If he still has a lump on his head, it’s concealed by the flat cap he wears. “Hey, Sam. Come on over here, will ya?” I oblige, trotting over to the diplodocus. “Pierce and I usually muster at the parking garage entrance in the morning. You’re welcome to meet us there instead of standin’ around the lobby lookin’ lost.”

I scratch the back of my neck. “Yeah, sure. Sorry about that. I’m still getting used to how things work.”

He gives me a clap on the back, his immense strength nearly sending me toppling. “You’ll catch on! I’m just glad you came back after all that excitement from yesterday.” His words cause me to stop; he turns and co*cks his head. “What’s wrong?”

“Yesterday… those guys at the bar… we—“

“We defended ourselves.” He steps closer, speaking quietly. “They tried to rob us, and they tried to kill us. We did what we needed to do.”

I look up at him with a frown. “What happened after we left? Y’know, with… with them?”

Marty blinks before glancing around. His tone is still hushed. “Everything is taken care of. Don’t worry about it.”

I feel my pulse start to quicken. “But, wouldn’t the police—I mean, we killed those—“

He hastily pushes me into a vacant office nearby, craning his neck around to ensure nobody became interested in our conversation. He brings his head down within inches of my face. “Sam. Everything’s gonna be okay. I understand you’re still rattled. It’s never easy when a fight goes down like that, but you did what needed to be done. And so long as you’re with the Herdsters and you do what we need you to do, nothin’ bad is gonna happen to you. You got that?”

He awaits my confirmation of his words, offering a stern but compassionate look. Despite the pang of nerves that jab my mind, I feel oddly comforted by his kind tone. I manage a nod, which he reciprocates before speaking again. “Alright, buddy. I’ll be with you all day today, so don’t let it get to ya. And if you need to take a breather, sit down, get a cup of coffee or whatever, it’s no problem.” He gives me a sly grin. “And don’t you worry, today’s gonna be a real treat. You get to witness the finest feature of the International Brotherhood of Herdsters in full swing: bureaucracy!”

I co*ck my head, unsure of his meaning until he leads me out of the office and a bit further down the hall toward two signs adorned with large letters: “Roscoe Truckers Association Voters Here” and “Stegen Island Cab Company Voters Here”. The signs flank two doors leading to separate rooms; within each, folding tables blanketed with paper, pencils and ballot boxes are tended to by dutiful Herdsters employees. The smell of freshly brewed coffee permeates the space between the rooms, affording the otherwise sterile environment a welcoming feeling.

Marty gives me a nudge to pull me out of my enraptured state. “Pretty exciting stuff, I know. We usually don’t do two-fers like this, but it just worked out this way. The fellas from both companies should start rolling in around nine and will probably keep trickling through until four or five.”

I half-register his words, distracted by my attempt to locate the origin of the delicious scent of caffeinated goodness. He seems to catch on to my distraction, stepping through the door to our left. He has to lower his neck slightly so his head doesn’t collide with the top of the threshold. His large fingers find the handle of the object I was unconsciously searching for a moment ago, a coffee pot brimming with freshly brewed alertness. He pours some into a thick paper cup and hands it to me. I glance at the coffee in my hands, then back up to him. “So… what are we gonna be doing today, then?”

He pours a second cup for himself, speaking after he takes a swig. “We’re gonna be glorified hall monitors. Keep an eye on things, point folks in the right direction, make sure nothing gets out of hand.”

I wince. “Out of h-hand?”

“Oh, no. It won’t be anything like that. In fact, I imagine the worst that might happen is there’ll be a few fellas poking around outside trying to snipe some of our members. Basically, an organization can only switch unions with a vote, so competing unions will try to entice people with promises of better rates or bigger benefits.” He scoffs. “They can’t even come close to the Herdsters, but they still try to sucker ‘em. Today’s vote ain’t about that, though. These two companies are newer to our union, so they’re voting on their own internal leadership. Pretty big companies, too, so we’ll have a lot of guys comin’ through here today!”

I cautiously blow on my coffee as he explains, waiting for it to cool down so I don’t scald my tongue with roasted bean water. Before yesterday, I’d hardly known a thing about the Herdsters or other unions for that matter, let alone how they operated. As I filled in my new hire paperwork, Charles explained a fair amount of what they do and what my role would be, though most of it went over my head. Contracts, work conditions, fair compensation, pickets, collective bargaining… they were a myriad of phrases that made some sense on their own, but when combined into an organization of this size made my brain hurt.

Marty and I spend a little more time chatting with one another. I ask about Pierce; Marty tells me that he’s conscious as of this morning but still in pretty rough shape, so he’ll likely be at the clinic through the weekend resting up. I don’t necessarily wish ill upon the guy, but I am glad to have a little time away from the stegosaurus and his unending hatred toward me. Marty’s words from yesterday echo in my mind, about the circ*mstances surrounding Pierce’s brother and his untimely end, but also his implication about Pierce potentially coming around to me. If it’s possible… it’d definitely make things a hell of a lot easier on this new career path I’m still uncertain about.

After a few minutes, some dinosaurs begin wandering into the building, looking for their appropriate voting area. Marty leads me outside the front entrance so we can keep an eye on the primary ingress point; according to him, that would be the most likely place for competing union representatives to loiter and try sweet talking our members. However, the only use of our vigilance is to point voters toward where they need to go; we see neither hide nor hair of any honey-tongued competitors all day. Marty eventually backpedals, saying that it’d be pretty ballsy for those jokers to come ‘round our turf and try to stir up trouble.

In a futile gesture, I wipe the completely drenched handkerchief across my forehead and silently curse Marty for the bright idea of having us stand in this horrific heat all day. It certainly put extra pep in the step of our visitors as they hustled to retreat indoors and into properly conditioned air. One fella mentioned that the weatherman suggested it might make it to the triple digits today, and I believed him. Heat like this might be common further west in the dusty deserts, but our fair city with all its conductive steel and paved walkways is quickly becoming a pressure cooker.

As the work day draws to a close, the last of the voters trickling out and the signage being brought down, Marty gives me a clap on the shoulder. “Ya did good today, bud. Like I said, a nice, easy day that hopefully helped settle you down a bit.” He begins turning away before pausing and shooting me a sly grin. “I just remembered. You said you got a date with that gal tonight, didn’t ya?”

I blink, not recalling having brought it up to him today. It takes a moment for me to remember mentioning it in the car yesterday when he gave me that necklace. “Y-yeah. Supposed to meet up with her at seven.”

His grin widens and he winks. “Good luck, champ! Not that you’ll need it, I bet you’re a smooth one when it comes to the ladies.” I can’t help but chuckle, knowing all too well that I am certainly not smooth. “I’ll expect a full breakdown on everything come Monday. You can’t keep being mysterious, not after I’ve prattled on about my Tina and our little incoming bundle of joy all day. You gotta return the favor and give me a little juicy detail on the love life of Mr. Lawson!”

I offer a polite smile and wave before heading out. “Have a good night, Marty.”

Truthfully, his penchant for chatting was quite helpful today. It kept me distracted from the anxiety of my second date with Aubrey, though I still felt twinges in my gut whenever the thought of her crossed my mind. I could tell Marty was doing a little probing of his own, attempting to get me to share a bit more about my pursued relationship, but I held my tongue and managed to sidestep the conversation. As glad as I am that he considers me a friend, I have no clue how the bombshell of me dating a velociraptor gal would go over with him, or anyone else within the Herdsters.

Or Pierce, for that matter. Hell, he might just kill me on the spot if he found out that I was pursuing a dinosaur with my caveman impurity.

The trip home takes me a bit longer than it did back when I was working for Sal. I have to take a couple buses to get to and from the Local 237, unlike simply being able to walk to work. Not that I’d mind a change of pace like this for a job that’d get me some more money, but I’m still not sold on the Herdsters. Yeah, today was peaceful and quiet, and maybe Marty’s right that most days aren’t bloody. But I never had to stab a guy in the leg and watch my coworker break his neck at any of my previous places of employment…

There’s nothin’ for it right now. I’ll just have to talk to Aubrey about it.

But how much am I gonna tell her? The aspiring cop who went charging headfirst toward gunfire with a bad knee—what is she gonna think if I tell her I helped kill a baryonyx? Despite not being an actual police officer, she’d probably arrest me on the spot. If I do get into a serious relationship with her, would I ever be able to tell her something like this? And what if more violence goes down in the future? What if I get hurt, or come home covered in blood? Is it worth the secrecy and dishonesty just to make enough money to provide for us? Can I even get out anymore without putting myself or her at risk in doing so?

Raptor Christ. Why’d this all have to happen like this? Why can’t things just be easy?

The bus lurches to a halt at the nearest stop to my home. I climb out, dejected and disheartened by my current f*cking mess of a situation. My watch informs me that it’s a little past six. Considering the place I invited Aubrey isn’t too far from my apartment, I should have enough time to freshen up, take Saxon out and then walk myself over to the restaurant.

Dinner and a movie. A classic combo for an aspiring couple. I’ve got no clue what’s playing at the theater, but they usually run movies until the wee hours of the morning on the weekends, so we shouldn’t have a problem getting a ticket to something. Whether it’ll be any good, who knows? But I’ll be spending that time with Aubrey.

After attending to Saxon, I take care of my personal hygiene, washing my face and dabbing a bit more cologne on my neck and wrists. I wanna look sharp, but not too sharp, so I go with a checkered button-up shirt and some black slacks. Not as snazzy as the jazz club, but not lookin’ like a beatnik either. I hesitate at my hat rack, considering tossing on a familiar flat cap before I decide against it. I’d rather let the top of my head cool itself as much as possible against this wicked heat, so I give my tangled mane a quick pass with the comb before heading out.

The scorching rays fail to relent in their merciless onslaught upon the poor citizens of Old York City even as the sun begins its slow retreat into the west. It’s easy to tell that everybody is sick and tired of the heat at this point, with sweat-covered brows and annoyed scowls adorning both the humans and dinosaurs I pass on my way to the chosen date spot. While I can certainly sympathize as I dab away the moisture on my face with my handkerchief, I can’t help but wear a smile as I stroll, the fluster of my work situation being temporarily silenced by the prospect of this evening.

I’m gonna do everything I can to make this work. I might have been dealt a tough hand with this Herdsters business, but I’m not gonna let it discourage me. Aubrey is too special of a woman to let slip away.

Just as the mental image of her form fills my mind for probably the seven hundredth time today, the real deal comes into view on the horizon, appearing like a shimmering mirage from the reflected heat from the concrete beneath us. She stands outside the entrance of my chosen dinner location, Lucky Louie’s Malt Shoppe. I put a little hustle into my step, getting within about fifty feet before she turns my direction and notices me.

Her mouth instantly widens into a smile, making my heart skip a beat. She lifts a greeting hand. “Hey, Sammy!”

“Heya, Aubrey! I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long, especially in this damned heat.”

She shakes her head, her smile not faltering in the slightest. “Not at all, I only got here a couple minutes ago.” Her eyes fall upon my outfit. “You look sharp as always, Sammy!”

She puts me to complete shame, being draped in a jaw-dropping single-piece dress the color of dark peaches. A row of evenly spaced buttons travel all the way from her collar down to the hem that rests just at her knees. A thin, similarly-colored belt hugs her narrow waist and contours to her subtle but seductive curves. Her arms are free of sleeves, granting vantage to her slender blue arms that just a few nights ago held me close as we danced and, later, as we kissed. Her hand raises, brushing aside some of her short blue hair that intrudes on her line of vision, further unveiling her sparkling citrine eyes to me.

She is beautiful.

Only now does her smile falter slightly, her cheeks reddening as she glances to the side nervously. “W-well?”

I snap out of my daze. “Oh my God. I’ve been sittin’ here staring like a freak! I-aw, geez. I’m sorry. Y-you look really nice, Aubrey.”

Her smile returns and her cheeks redden more deeply. “Thank you. I hoped you’d like it.”

I dart forward to draw open the door to Lucky Louie’s. She bobs me a polite little curtsy before stepping into the diner. Several booths with red lining on the seats span the windowed wall, and a bar with red-topped circular stools faces the kitchen. The smells of sizzling beef patties and bubbling oil fryers permeate the quaint restaurant. Some decade-old swing music echoing from a jukebox tucked against the far wall competes with the sound of an enormous metallic contraption that churns ice cream and flavored powder into delicious concoctions. It seems that particular juggernaut is working overtime today as the majority of the shop’s patrons crowd around the bar, slurping down their own tasty malts or awaiting delivery of one from the frazzled teenager fulfilling their orders.

I wouldn’t call myself a frequent of this establishment, but I’ve eaten here a handful of times. It’s also not exactly a glamorous date location, but I didn’t want to go too overboard so early in my courtship of this woman. With the money from this new job I’d happily take her somewhere much fancier than this; on a scorcher of a day like today I figured a frozen treat would suit us just fine.

We scoot ourselves across from one another in a booth, the squeak of the faux leather recalling an unpleasant memory when I sat across from the triceratops I now call boss before I knew whether I’d be dying at his hand or not. However, I can’t linger on the sour memory as Aubrey shoots me another beautiful smile. “This place seems nice, I’ve never been here before.”

I return her smile before turning to observe the other customers and staff. All humans. A few shoot wary glances in Aubrey’s direction, but most focus on their own conversation and malted beverages. I turn back to my date. “It’s a neat little hole in the wall place. You’d just as easily drive right past it and not give it a second look, but their food is pretty good!”

I catch a small glimpse of the feathers at the end of her tail swaying under the table, but before our conversation can continue a waitress wanders over to us. The bags under her aged eyes communicate a lack of desire to work here, or anywhere for that matter, and her sour expression clashes with the cheerful pink and white stripes of her aproned dress. She scans me, then Aubrey for a long moment before arching her eyebrows. Her several-pack-a-day smoker’s rasp rolls past a curled lip. “What can I get for ya?”

My cheeks redden in embarrassment and I glance down. However, Aubrey smiles at the woman. “A cheeseburger and fries would be great, thank you!”

The waitress scribbles on a pad of white paper before turning to me. “And you?” Her tone is curt, and her eyes seem accusatory, as though I should be ashamed for bringing one of them into a fine human establishment like this.

“Uh… I-I’ll have… the same. No tomatoes, please.”

With a click of her tongue, the waitress saunters back to the kitchen. I feel like a total idiot, not having considered the implications of bringing Aubrey to a place like this, especially after—

“No tomatoes?” Her playful voice brings my eyes back to hers. “Am I gonna have to be worried about a picky eater around my cooking?”

It takes a second for my brain to catch up. “N-no. I’m not really picky about much. Just… don’t like raw tomatoes—look, Aubrey. I’m really sorry. I didn’t—“

She lifts a finger to stop me and closes her eyes for a moment as she takes a deep breath. When she reopens them, her gaze meets mine with warmth and comfort, her gentle smile putting me at ease. “Don’t apologize. I did a lot of thinking over the past couple days, and what you said outside of Birdland really stuck with me. Do you remember what you said?”

I don’t have to search my memory for very long before a small smile creeps onto my lips. “f*ck ‘em.”

She nods. “That’s right. I already had my conniption in that jazz club and I was worried I’d ruined the whole night for both of us, but you were a true gentleman and saw past my foolishness. So from now on, I’m not gonna let the looks or sneers bother me.” She reaches a hand across the table and places it on mine. “A fella like you is worth a little discomfort from strangers. You better believe I’m a tough woman, so it’ll take more than that to discourage me from you.”

I know she’s sayin’ words at me, and they’re really nice words, but hot damn my heart is going a mile a minute and I got a lot of blood rushing somewhere it don’t belong right now. I opt to stare at her hand on top of mine, trying desperately to contain the thoughts of what I want to do with Aubrey.

A dry spell really does things to a guy, y’know?

Literally shaking away the lustful notions with a quick flick of my head, I turn my hand over to accept hers. Her fingers squeeze between mine and her yellow eyes narrow ever so slightly, bringing a rapid end to the tenuous internal armistice that I had formed with my libido.

Either my expression is way too telling or Aubrey is practicing to be a mind reader; she lets out a giggle. “This is gonna be fun. I like teasing my friends and getting reactions from them, but with a fella like you… all sorts of new opportunities are opened before me!”

I scrunch up my face, but can’t help but smile. “Oh, is that so? You’re just doin’ this to torment me, huh?”

She gives a wicked grin. “Mmhmm! And you’d better believe I’m gonna revel in it!”

We both share a laugh, earning a few more over-the-shoulder glances from the other patrons, but neither Aubrey nor I pay them any mind. Tonight is for us.

Aubrey suggests we play a fun little dating game she had been suggested by one of her book club friends where we take turns asking each other questions. No matter the question, you had to answer it, and you only got to ask one question before the other person got a turn. You also weren’t allowed to just say “Same question for you”, you had to switch it up and then maybe come back to that earlier one later if you really wanted to ask it.

We pass the imaginary baton back and forth as we learn more about one another, with questions ranging from “Where did you go to high school?” to “If you were a sea creature, what would you be and why?” I got to learn a lot about Aubrey from the game, including that she’s an only child like me, that her favorite jazz song is ‘Walkin’’ by Miles Cratis but her favorite jazz album is ‘Moanin’’ by Art Drakey and the Jazz Couriers, and that she’d be an octopus because they’re “majestic” and also they “can dump a bunch of ink out their ass to run away… when necessary, of course.”

Our laughter is briefly interrupted when the waitress returns with our food, two cheeseburgers, one sans tomatoes. Aubrey’s eyes light up at the display before meeting mine again. “You ain’t asked me what my favorite food is yet.”

I chuckle. “I feel like this is a leading question, but why not? What’s your fav—“

“Hamburgers! I will never say no to a juicy burger.”

“Oh, so you’re saying I made a good call with picking this place?”

She nods excitedly as she takes a bite of the burger, but switches to feigned indignance as she speaks past her mouthful. “Hey, you already asked your question, it’s my turn!”

I raise an eyebrow. “Isn’t it un-lady-like to talk with your mouth full?”

She washes down the meat patty with a swig of water before shaking her head. “I refuse to answer any more questions until I get to ask one.” A contemplative talon scratches at the bottom of her snout as I munch on a few of my fries. “Tell me more about this sudden change of career choice. You’re working for the Herdsters now, right?”

The question catches me off guard, causing me to sputter on the fried potato in my throat. I paw at my own glass of water and gulp some down to allow me to breathe again. Aubrey doesn’t seem to find any deeper meaning in my choke, merely expanding upon her question. “You mentioned it when you called me on Wednesday night, but we didn’t really get to talk that much.”

She’s right about that. I was so frazzled on Wednesday night that all I could manage was to tell her about my new job and then ask her out. I told her I’d explain more on our date; I’m surprised she waited this long to ask me about it. Maybe she was waiting for me to volunteer the info myself and got impatient. She watches me attentively as she takes another bite of her dinner.

“Not much to tell about it, really.” I scratch the back of my neck. “Had a bit of a… fortuitous meeting, I guess. Ran into a fella who works for the Herdsters. He was impressed by my quality of character and offered me a job.”

Aubrey co*cks her head. “Well, you’re certainly a character, but what did you do that impressed him so much?”

I smirk. “I thought we only got one question.” She merely looks at me, setting her burger down and folding her hands on the table to await my answer. Guess that rule only applies for her. “I returned some lost money to them.”

This causes her eyes to widen. “You what?”

I really hate having to do this. I don’t like being dishonest, but I can’t tell her everything. I gotta give her a version of the truth. “I came across an envelope that had money that belonged to them on my way home from work. It was misplaced, musta been lost by the fella who collected it. I returned it and got offered a job for my trouble.”

She blinks and shakes her head, trying to piece together the story. “How would you have known the money belonged to the Herdsters?”

“Coincidentally, it was the same envelope Sal Fontana—the owner of Sal’s Butcher and Grocery—had me hand the Herdsters rep earlier. I could tell it was the same one because of his handwriting on it.”

She blinks again. “That… certainly is a mighty coincidence. How much money was in this envelope?”

I shrug. “Dunno exactly, but it was quite a bit. In fact, Charles Rossi gave me a bit of cash out of it as a ‘thank you’ along with the job offer.”

Aubrey’s eyes narrow for a moment and go out of focus before they widen toward me. “Did you say ‘Rossi’?”

“Y-yeah? You know him?”

She crosses her arms and looks down, a finger tapping on her forearm as she thinks. “Not exactly. I spoke with a cab driver about the Herdsters. He seemed to be a somewhat simple fella, but he had nothing but good things to say about the organization. Mentioned the name ‘Rossi’.” I breathe a sigh of relief which she quickly cuts off by looking back up at me. “I also did some digging over the past couple days, about the Herdsters. Did you know they’re being criminally investigated in several states by the government?”

“No, I didn’t.” There’s no half-truth here, I legitimately didn’t know that. I mean… maybe it isn’t that surprising given what I know now, but how far in over my head am I?

“No major convictions have stuck yet, but there have been numerous cases tying the Herdsters to organized crime around the country.” She suddenly looks extremely concerned, reaching past our plates of food to place her hands on top of mine. “Sammy, are you in trouble with them? Are they making you do anything… illegal?”

The whispered word sends a chill down my spine but I quickly shake my head. “N-no! I wouldn’t do anything like that! I’m an honest guy!”

Her eyes remain on mine, seemingly peering into my soul. After a moment, she smiles and nods. “I know you are, Sammy. That’s one of the reasons I like you.” She lets the sentiment linger and returns to her meal, glancing out the window next to us with a dreamy expression as she nibbles on her remaining fries.

Her words practically tear my heart in half. On the one hand, she just said she likes me which makes me want to jump out of my chair and cheer. On the other… I just told her I’m an honest guy right after lying to her about my entanglement with the Herdsters. Is this what my life is gonna become? One where I have to talk out both sides of my mouth to not make this woman suspicious of my dealings? How long will that last before I f*ck up or, more likely, she catches on? She’s not a stupid woman, far from it. She might even sniff out my bullsh*t before we’re even done with dinner.

She turns back to me, a new expression crossing her face. I’m not exactly sure what she’s thinking, but she seems to open her mouth to begin speaking before closing it again and reconsidering her words several times. Finally, she takes a deep breath and gets out what she wanted to ask. “This… might seem like a strange request. And please know, I’m not trying to get you into any sort of trouble, not with you being so new to the Herdsters, but… if I asked you to do me a favor involving your work, could you do it?”

I blink, somewhat vexed by this sudden question. “I mean, yeah, I’d be happy to do anything for you, Aubrey. But… what is it you need me to do?”

She purses her lips. “When I went into the station on Tuesday night, after everything that happened at Birdland, I found out that one of those officers that arrested Miles Cratis is involved with the Herdsters. I’m not exactly sure how, or in what capacity, but I know he was advocating for the Herdsters with some of the other officers. He had pamphlets in his locker.” She taps one of her talons on the tabletop as she thinks. “A lot about it doesn’t make sense. First off, he’s an asshole cop who hurt Miles Cratis and ruined our first date. Second, the police already have a union, one they’ve used for a lot of years. It doesn’t make sense that one fresh-faced recruit would be trying to stir up trouble or get the police to swap unions, especially with all the scrutiny that the Herdsters are under these days.”

She looks back up at me and her voice carries earnest authority. “I’m sorry to ask it of you since you’re so new, but could you keep your eyes open for anything… suspicious? I know you’re honest and you’re not gonna be okay with doing dishonest things for them, but if you see anything involving the Herdsters and the police, could you let me know?” She fidgets. “I know I’m not a cop, but I still want to do my best and if there’s something dirty going on, I need to let the Commissioner know.”

I nod to her. “Yeah, I can do that. I’ll be sure to let you know if I see anything suspicious.”

She smiles and takes my hand again. “Thank you, Sammy. This means a lot to me.”

I return her smile, but realize her request has sealed my fate with the Herdsters. Now I’ve got no choice but to keep working for them, otherwise she’ll figure out something is up. She returns to her nearly finished dinner, polishing off the last bite of her burger and the few remaining bits of potato from her plate.

At this point, there’d only be one clean way out of my arrangement, and that’d be to get the hell out of dodge. I try to put on a playful tone. “Hey, since you got to ask me like ten questions in a row, that means I get a few, right?” She smiles and shrugs, still chewing the last bit of her food. I gulp, wary about the next question I’m going to ask her. “Would you ever consider not living in Old York City?” She co*cks a perplexed eyebrow at me past her glass of water. “Y’know, moving somewhere… less crowded, less bustling? A small town.”

She shakes her head. “I’ve already gone past that part of my life, Sammy. I grew up in a small town, and it was boring. Something about this place makes me feel more fulfilled.”

“But what about your dream of becoming a police officer?”

This makes her expression tighten. “What about it?”

“I mean… don’t you think you might have a better shot of becoming a cop for a smaller town? It’d be less of a risk to—“

She doesn’t let me finish. “What, so I can track down Farmer Bill’s escaped pigs and maybe break up a bar fight once every two months? What kind of life would that be? I’d be better off not doing it at all if I’m not gonna do anything useful.” Though I sense some bitterness in her words, she seems to try to rein herself in. “Part of the reason I moved to Old York in the first place was to be somewhere where I could make a real difference. That just won’t happen over in Podunk.”

“I didn’t mean any offense, it was just—“

“I know, Sammy. You were trying to offer an alternative to accommodate my situation. It’s something a lot of people have done for me since…” She trails off, her expression becoming more sullen as her head sinks. Just as I’m about to reach across the table and put a reassuring hand on hers, she lifts her eyes again. They are filled with sorrow. “Do you… think I can be a cop?”

My hand completes its journey, coming to rest on hers. She immediately accepts it, tightening her fingers around mine. “Of course I do, Aubrey. You’re one of the strongest women I’ve ever met. You charged into battle like you were gettin’ off one of those landing crafts on D-Day, and that was literally the first time I met you. The amount of passion and zeal you showed when Miles Cratis was bein’ arrested was, frankly, intimidating.” This earns a small giggle past her clouded eyes. “But that’s the kind of woman you are. You’re one of a kind, and I think the police force would be foolish to not let you help protect this city.”

She bites her lip, trying to keep the tears from falling. “Thank you, Sammy. You’re one of a kind, too.”

I want to lean forward and kiss her, but the clatter of our plates being removed by the annoyed waitress breaks both Aubrey and I out of the moment. She glares down at us like she caught two teenagers trying to sneak out late at night before letting out a huff. “Anythin’ else for the two of you?”

I glance at Aubrey who dabs at her eyes with a napkin. “A couple chocolate malts?” She nods at me. “A couple chocolate malts.” My repeated request sends the waitress back toward the kitchen with a roll of her eyes. I shrug and speak quietly. “The staff usually aren’t this rude. Must be the heat.”

Aubrey giggles. “Must be!” She balls up the soiled napkin, damp with a few loosed tears and some makeup smudges. Though the moment for a comforting kiss has passed, she pulls my hands into hers again, beaming her beautiful smile at me from across the table.

I meant what I said about her being a terrific cop, if she was given the opportunity, but… there’s still the one thing. Her physical impairment that kept her from being able to dance with me to the more upbeat song at the jazz club. And if her knee is bad enough that it can’t handle that sorta exertion…

“Hey, Aubrey. If you don’t mind… could I ask about your—“

My question is cut short by the sudden dousing of lights in the restaurant. Aubrey and I both glance above us at the darkened light fixture, then around the rest of the establishment. The music came to a slow end, the record needle murmuring out the dying breath of some poor swing record that won’t complete its rotation. The hums of the busy malt mixers fade out, earning surprised gasps and annoyed moans from the waiting patrons.

I look back to Aubrey. “Did—did the power just go out?”

She stares out the window. “Uhh, I think so, and then some.” I follow her pointing finger out to the street and the surrounding structures. Not a single electric light can be seen performing its duty. The towering building across the road stands black and ominous, only lit by the waning sun and its reflection offered by the early moon. Several windows of apartments above are thrown open, and perplexed heads poke out, surveying the road and the building in which our currently darkened restaurant resides.

I scratch the back of my neck. “Well, this is a new one. Can’t say I’ve ever had a blackout happen during a date!”

Aubrey turns back to me with a smile. “Let’s hope it’s not a sign of bad luck. You’d let me know if you were a walking jinx, right?”

I chuckle. “Well, my uncle is a black cat and I frequently spend my weekends walking underneath ladders.”

“You goofball.” Aubrey looks past me toward the entrance. A few customers have wandered out of the restaurant, while others sit around remarking about the occurrence. “Well, does this mean we aren’t gonna get those malts?”

“I imagine that fella still knows how to stir with a spoon, right? We might as well enjoy the ice cream and wait for everything to come back on.”

It turns out, the panicked teenager was not up to the task of hand-stirring chocolate malts, and the fry cook, presently without power or light in his kitchen, stormed out into the store front to handle the ice cream orders while sentencing the teen to mopping duty. The bad temper of our waitress is now on full display of everyone as she loudly curses after banging her shin on a chair leg in the lackluster lighting. She mutters further obscenities as she limps into the back of the restaurant.

After several minutes, the irritated fry cook extends Aubrey and I the best smile he can as he presents us with two hand-stirred chocolate malts and our check. I quickly scoop up the slip of paper and fetch a few bucks out of my wallet to cover the bill and a tip. Aubrey smiles at me and bats her eyelashes as she takes the first sip of her chocolate treat, speaking up when I sample my own malted delight.

“You know, I am gonna pay for some of our dates. I appreciate you being a gentleman and all, but you’d better not spoil me.”

“Hey, I just got this new job and all. I want to spoil you a bit.”

Her eyes playfully narrow as she takes another sip, but the cold provided by my own malt pales in comparison to the chill that fires up my spine as her ankle brushes against my leg underneath the table. Just as quickly as it made its presence known, it disappears again, the only sign of the wayward appendage being the sassy smile on Aubrey’s lips.

Language has forsaken me. “I—uhh, I was—umm… I was gonna ask—uhh…”

I cannot remember what I was going to ask. There’s really just one thought rolling through my head at this moment, and it ain’t the head on top of my shoulders.

Another fifteen minutes go by as we finish our malts, the delicious chilled beverage doing well to soothe my heated everything. A few more questions pass between the two of us, but our interest in the conversation is frequently sidelined by the world of darkness around us. The power still hasn’t come back on, and most of the other patrons have left. The waitress finally makes her way back out to the front, collecting the check and my payment and offering a smile when I inform her the rest is for her. However, she also lets us know that they’re probably going to lock up in the next few minutes.

Aubrey and I oblige the request, making our way out to the blackened street. The only bright lights visible are those of the headlamps of passing cars, and it seems even the vehicles are making themselves scarce in this strange occurrence. The skyline appears haunting, a distressing level of shadow that I’ve only seen a handful of times. Sure, blackouts have occurred before, but this one seems to stretch on forever. Usually a blackout is a single building or, at worst, a city block or two. But save for the straggling vehicles on the road, everything is just off.

I offer a hand to Aubrey which she accepts readily. “The theater is only a couple blocks away. You okay walkin’ over there?”

She lifts an eyebrow. “I doubt a theater is gonna do us much good now, what with them needing, ya know, electricity to play the movie and all.”

“Hey, smarty. I figure the power might be back on by the time we get there, or maybe we wait around for a few minutes.”

“And if it isn’t?”

“I guess we call it a night and get you a cab back home?”

She ponders my words for a moment before nodding. “Alright. Let’s do that.”

We make our way down the sidewalk, strolling together hand in hand like a young married couple. We pass by several people who mill about outside, perplexed and impressed by the marvel of such a catastrophic failure of our city’s infrastructure. Guess they weren’t lying when they said folks shouldn’t leave their refrigerators open. Maybe one too many grannies without an air conditioner did that and blew the whole f*ckin’ city’s power grid.

Still, the darkened skyline affords a strange, otherworldly beauty to the space above and around us. If I was out here by myself I might be a bit freaked out, but with Aubrey by my side it almost comes across as… romantic. The passing cars and chatter of people still offer a backdrop familiar to the city, but the absence of the constant thrum of electricity is noticeable. It offers a certain level of calmness you don’t normally feel unless you’re far away from the skyscraper-laden landscape, surrounded by trees and flowers instead of light poles and buried electrical wires.

We arrive at the theater with nothing but a further darkened sky above us. At this point the sun has fully set, leaving us only with the moonlight and the somehow still hot air around us. I step up to the box office, glancing through the glass to find absolutely nobody manning it. Aubrey raises an eyebrow at me as I turn back to her. “So? How long we wanna wait?”

I feign indignance. “Geez, am I that miserable to be around that you wanna ditch me so fast?”

She giggles before stepping closer to me and planting a quick kiss on my cheek. “You know that’s not what I meant. I’m just a little worried that the power might not come back on and that I won’t be able to get a cab back home.” I glance up and down the street, noticing a significant lack of typical traffic for this hour. Even with the setting sun, taxis are normally numerous, but it seems they are going into hiding this evening.

I notice a bench beneath a couple movie posters leading up to the theater’s entrance. I lead Aubrey over to it and offer her a seat which she accepts. The slight overhang of the theater marquee, normally covered with dazzling lights, instead offers even more darkness in the continued outage. With a sigh, I take a seat next to Aubrey.

She glances at me with concern. “Everything okay?”

I shrug. “Well. I’m not sure what to do now. I was planning to give this to you with… you know, light so you could actually see it, but that might not be possible tonight.”

Her mouth hangs open for a moment before she stutters out a reply. “G-give? Give me what, Sammy?”

I withdraw the slender rectangular box from my pocket, having been careful to keep it concealed from Aubrey during our date. “Just something… a gift. Something I thought you’d like. But if you can’t even see it…”

Her eyes dart from the box back up to my face. “U-um! I can actually still see pretty well! Velociraptors have good low-light vision, y’know! Not as good as some species of dinosaurs, but it’s pretty good! And—well—and…” Her fingers fidget on her lap and her tail quivers in anticipation.

I offer her a smile. “Okay. I still think it looks a lot nicer in the light, but… it’ll look nice on you no matter what.” I slowly lift the lid of the box and present the crescent moon necklace to Aubrey.

Her hands instantly fly up to her mouth as she gasps, the trace amounts of moonlight glinting from her saucepan eyes. “OH! Oh, Sammy!” Her trembling fingers lift the pendant from its velvet-lined resting place, her thumb sliding across its smooth silver face. “It’s beautiful. I love it!”

“May I?” Her eyes find mine again as I lift the necklace out of the box and unclasp it. Reaching forward gently, I bring the two ends together at the back of her neck, our faces coming within inches of one another. With the clasp reconnected, the pendant rests just above the collar of her dress, shimmering in the increasingly limited light of the actual moon high above us. I smile at her. “It looks really nice on—“

She doesn’t let me finish the sentence, bringing her lips to mine and wrapping her arms around my shoulders. The gesture, while a little surprising in its suddenness, is entirely welcomed as I return her kiss, bringing my hands to rest on the flat of her back as I beckon her toward myself. She scoots closer, exploring my tongue with hers, drawing in breaths between each kiss. Her eyes close in bliss as we share the passionate exchange, heat radiated amidst the still sweltering night air around us.

She eventually withdraws, placing her forehead against mine as she lightly pants. Her eyes reopen, focusing on mine with desire and adoration. “Sammy…”

My heart leaps at the potential words that might follow her utterance of my name. I wonder if she’s about to say the same thing I want to say to her, that I’ve wanted to say to her. Is the second date too soon to say it? Because to hell with the rules, I know what I feel in my heart.

“I—“

“We’re CLOSED!”

The shrill voice causes both Aubrey and I to jump and spin toward its source. The theater’s door is held ajar and a grouchy tyrannosaurus pokes his large head through the opening. I sputter in response. “Uhh! S-sorry! We were—that is, are you—“

“We’re closed. Can’t you see that the power’s out everywhere? No power, no movies. Now beat it!” With a puff of air from his nostrils, he slams the door. The sound of its lock latching into place offers additional finality where it wasn’t needed.

Of all the rotten timing… I slowly turn back to Aubrey whose look is far off. I expected to get a giggle out of her, but she seems to be in another world altogether. “Geez. Sorry about that.”

Her eyes focus on me, but her gaze still seems distracted. “I-it’s okay. Let’s… get a cab. I should get home.”

I nod to her and stand from the bench; she follows suit. I offer her my hand which she quickly accepts, the redness of her cheeks clearly visible even in the limited light.

We begin making our way down the street back in the direction from which we came. I glance around for any sign of the telltale yellow and black checkers, but see no symmetrical patterned shapes on vehicles for several blocks. Very few cars are on the road at all, and none of them seem to be taxis.

Aubrey appears to be looking as well, but her expression shifts between far off distraction and some sort of flustered annoyance. Her tail that had been happily swaying behind her all night has wrapped itself around her midsection; she cradles its feathered end with her free hand. I consider asking her if everything’s okay, but I can only guess how that would go or if she’d even give me a straight answer. Did I do something to upset her? I don’t think I did; she seemed to really like the necklace that’s still hanging around her neck.

For a moment her eyes meet mine, then quickly dart away as her cheeks deepens another shade.

Is… is that it? Is she…

Aw, geez. That would be going awfully fast, even for two divorcees on a dry spell. I mean, I’m on a dry spell. Guess I don’t know about her. But… is she getting nervous about… that? The possibility of us… I mean, we’re both adults, right? We can decide when it’s right to—

“I don’t see any cabs.” She stops in place, still holding my hand and cradling her tail.

I turn to face her. “Me neither. This is a really weird night.” Her eyes don’t wander away from mine. “Um… how far away do you live?”

“A ways. Too far to walk, at least at night.”

I gulp. The stagnant heat doesn’t relent in the slightest, causing my brow to pummel me with sweat. My heart attempts to burst its way out of my chest and crawl down the sidewalk in search of less stressful pastures. Meanwhile, Aubrey continues gazing at me with her twinkling yellow eyes, diamond irises shimmering and full of vulnerability.

I barely hear myself say the words as they roll past my lips.

“Do you want to come up to my place?”

Chapter 11: Aubrey

Chapter Text

Oh my God.

He… he asked me.

He really asked me to—

You’ll just let him down.

But he asked me to come up to his place. That means… exactly what I think it means. We’re both adults, after all. We’re both familiar with what comes next. We both… want this.

No, you don’t. This is WAY too fast for you, isn’t it?

It’s a little fast, yeah. But—

You just got done telling yourself how you wanted to slow things down, and now you’re gonna have SEX with the guy? You’re a walking contradiction, ain’t ya?

I am not, I know what I’m doing.

I glance back up at Sammy. His eyes are wide and his posture rigid. “Uhh! I-I didn’t mean it like th-that! If you’re—ya know, I mean—if that’s—“

I squeeze his hand, bringing his stuttered backpedaling to a swift halt. “I’d like that.”

His mouth hangs open in shock. “O-okay. I’m… just a couple blocks away.” He spins on his heel and begins marching toward our destination like a drill sergeant just gave him a direct order. His nervousness is actually pretty cute.

slu*t.

I shake my head, feeling my feathers bristle in my hand. I don’t know when the tip of my tail climbed into my grasp, but every time I try to will it away it just shudders in defiance and stays where it is.

It’s telling you this is a mistake.

Shut up.

Sammy nervously glances over his shoulder at me a few times, perhaps worried that I’ll suddenly have a change of heart, but I follow along down the darkened sidewalks. Truthfully, my own mind is swimming with emotions. I was so close to saying something to him back underneath the marquee, after he gave me this beautiful necklace and shared a passionate kiss with me. I felt safer in his arms than I have in months, maybe years. I felt for him… I feel for him something I haven’t experienced in longer than I can remember.

You don’t love him.

I… might. I wanted to say it. I wanted to whisper it to him and continue exploring him. I think—

You don’t love him. You don’t deserve him. You’re worthless.

Shut up. I’m not going through this tonight. Not when he’s so close to me. Not when I want to be with him.

You’ll only disappoint him. He’ll want nothing to do with you.

Please, shut up. I don’t want to hear it.

Why would anyone want anything to do with you, after what you did?

SHUT—

“This is the place.” Sammy’s voice distracts me as he brings us to a stop in front of a five story apartment building sandwiched between two much more impressive looking structures. It’s clearly in need of some upkeep because it sticks out like a sore thumb, with several vestiges of wood and brick dangling limply from its surface. Sammy scratches the back of his neck. “S-sorry, it’s not much to look at.”

I smile, drawing myself closer to him—

Neither are you.

“I-I don’t mind.” My words stutter from my mouth, but Sammy smiles at me.

“Okay. Uhh, I think I got a flashlight in my apartment, but I’m up on the fourth floor. Want me to go get it?”

HA! Not even in his home yet and he’s already trying to abandon you!

Shut up!

“N-no, I’ll come along.”

He glances down at my leg. “I’m sorry it’s so high up. Will your knee be alright?”

Worthless limb on a worthless woman.

“Yeah. I’ll just take it slow and careful.”

He nods and smiles. “Okay.” As we step toward the door, he abruptly stops. “Oh, uhh… one other thing. I have a neighbor who’s… well, for lack of a nicer way to put it, he’s a real piece of sh*t. Not that I’m trying to sneak you in or anything, but for both our sake, it’d probably be better if he didn’t swing open his door and start sh*t with us. He’d definitely be the kind to do that.”

Already ashamed of you around his neighbors, what a catch this guy is, indeed!

I swear to God.

“Th-that’s okay.” I offer him a smile, though I know my expression is all sorts of f*cked right now. Of any night for me to get a little reprieve from this bullsh*t, I wish it’d be tonight.

We travel up the small stoop leading to the front door; Sammy pulls it open and gestures for me to enter, ever the gentleman. I give another bashful smile before passing through—

A gentleman you don’t deserve.

Sammy silently pulls closed the portal behind himself, before nodding toward the stairs leading up to the second floor landing. I take his hand again, feeling his warmth through our connected limbs. He offers me the side nearest the banister, but I slowly ascend without its aid, continuing to cradle my damned tail. I try shoving it aside but it snaps back into place like it’s spring-loaded.

At the second floor, we turn to wrap back around and find the first stair leading up to the third story. However, the wood boards beneath our feet squeak and groan loudly with our steps, another sign of the building’s age. As we nearly pass the door of this level, it clicks open, a trace amount of light escaping through the crack.

Oh no.

Busted!

“Izzat you, Samuel?” A raspy, elderly voice emanates from the space between door and frame.

Sammy turns in the voice’s direction, giving my hand a little squeeze as he does so. “Oh, good evening, Mr. Garbowitz. I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

The door widens further, revealing a gallimimus gentleman who appears to be in his twilight years. He stares at Sammy past enormous, thick-rimmed glasses that rest tenuously at the end of his snout. “Ohh, no, you didn’t wake me. I’d usually still be watching my shows, but this electrical outage has put a damper on my TrawlNet enjoyment.” His head quivers as he slowly turns in my direction. A moment goes by before his eyes widen and a sly smile crosses his weathered lips. “What’s this? A lady caller this evening?”

Sammy nervously replies. “Uhh—well, y’see—I was on a date with—“

The elderly neighbor chuckles playfully. “Well, Samuel? Are you going to introduce me or are you just going to stammer?”

I take the initiative away from my incapacitated date, extending a hand. “I’m Aubrey Carter. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

Another grin crosses his face. “Please, call me Harold. I’ve been trying to get Samuel to call me Harold for months now but he just won’t do it!” He accepts my hand, but rather than shaking it plants a shaky kiss on my fingers.

I can’t help but smile at the show of courtesy, but Samuel places his hands on his hips. “What’s this about? Are you trying to steal Aubrey away from me, Mr. Garbowitz?”

Harold chuckles again, but doesn’t answer. Instead he turns his slow neck back into his apartment. “This power outage might not be ending for a while. If the boys downtown haven’t fixed it by now, they probably won’t fix it ‘til morning at the earliest. Come on in, let me get you two some candles.” He doesn’t wait for us to accept his invitation before wandering deeper into his own home, leaving the door wide open in his wake.

Sammy turns to me with a shrug and a whisper. “This isn’t the neighbor I was warning you about, by the way. That’d be Roger up on three who’s an asshole.”

I giggle. “I figured this wasn’t the bad one, unless you’re actually worried about Harold stealing me away.” I stick out my tongue before stepping into the apartment, earning a speechless look from my date.

Some date. Now you’re wasting time with an old codger. How pathetic.

I distract myself by glancing around the dimly lit room. A myriad of candles are sprinkled throughout the home, shedding enough light to give the space a feeling of nostalgic comfort. However, the coziness is betrayed by the mountains of newspaper that adorn almost every surface, with numerous towers of the folded parchments piled in each discernible corner of the room. The only clearly visible furniture is a recliner parked in front of a small television screen and the twin-sized mattress against the far wall.

Harold slowly hobbles over to a small kitchen cupboard, expending a bit of effort to bend over and rummage through its contents. I peek over my shoulder and gasp, quickly snatching up a few candles and knocking the newspapers they were sitting on top of to the floor. Before Harold can complete his slow rotation to glance at the racket, I’ve put the candles back down on the non-fire-hazard surface and face him with an innocent grin.

He grins in return. “Ahh, don’t mind the clutter. Years of reading the paper tends to accumulate, I’m afraid.” He turns back to the cupboard; Samuel merely shrugs at me. I guess he’s aware of his neighbor’s hoarding habit. I’d just prefer to not burn to death tonight is all.

Spending all night here? Yeah f*ckin’ right. You’ll be on your ass in the street before—

Shut up!

With a half dozen small candles grasped between his knobbly fingers, Harold begins the slow trek back to Sammy and I. He grins again, peering at me past his enormous spectacles. “So… erm, Aubrey, was it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Aubrey. How did you meet this fine young gentleman?”

Pure, stupid coincidence.

“H-he recognized a jazz song I was humming at a bus stop and struck up a conversation about it.”

His grin widens and his journey is half-completed. “Oh, a jazz enthusiast, are you? I know Samuel enjoys that music, but I’ve always been more fond of ragtime myself. Don’t listen to it so much anymore, but Greta and I used to love dancing to it.”

I perk up. “Greta is your wife?”

He nods, though looks a bit sorrowful. “She was. Died about six years ago.”

“Oh… I’m sorry, sir.”

He shakes his head, replacing the solemn look with a warm smile. “That’s life. But enough about me. This Samuel you bagged is quite a fella. Did you know, he brings my morning paper up to my door every day!”

Through my peripheral vision, I notice Sammy scratch the back of his neck nervously. “It’s no trouble, Mr. Garbowitz.”

Harold shakes his head again, still a few shuffled paces away. “No, no. Don’t sell yourself short, Samuel. You’re the only neighbor I have who would do that for me.” His eyes take on a weary look of self-realization. “It’s only getting harder for me to get up and down those stairs, so that little gesture means a lot to an old man like me.”

He’s finally arrived close enough for Sammy to accept his gift. “Thank you, Mr. Garbowitz. For the nice words, and for the candles, too.”

A shaky hand finds its way to Sammy’s arm; Harold gazes at my date with a warm smile. “Greta and I were never able to have any children of our own, but if I had a son, I’d have hoped he’d be a kind man like you.” He blinks. “Ah, do you have a lighter in your home? I could find one for—“

Sammy cuts him off “I should have some matches, it’s alright. Thank you though!”

Harold slowly turns my way, extending a hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Aubrey!”

My hand reflexively finds his to complete the parting gesture, but I say nothing. I can’t say anything. Not past—

You’re trying not to think about it, ain’t ya? You’re not pulling one over on me. That ain’t how this game works and you know it.

Shut up.

I do everything in my power to not look rude as I make my way back into the hall with Sammy. He doesn’t seem to notice my contorted expression in the near pitch-black hall, simply offering his free hand to me again as we continue the journey upward.

See, I know what you know. I’m in here just as much as you are. I ain’t even real, just a voice in your f*ckin’ head. So who’s really the bad guy here, huh? Is it me? Or is it the daffy bitch who can’t get over—

Shut up.

We arrive at the third floor, Sammy doing everything in his power to move cautiously and quietly past this door. I tiptoe along with him, trying—

Watch your step. You wouldn’t want—

SHUT. UP.

Sammy glances back at me before nodding upward. He said he’s on the fourth floor. One more to go.

You don’t belong here. You don’t belong with any man. Not after what you did.

Please stop. Please. Not tonight.

“This is the place.”

Sammy glances at me nervously before fishing around in a pocket for his key. Inserting it into the lock, a soft click grant us admittance to his—

“Boof!”

What looks to be a throw rug on legs dances in place within the darkened apartment, tail wagging and tongue flopping freely from its owner’s mouth. Beady black eyes gaze up at Sammy, but the creature’s excitement doubles when it notices my presence.

“Heya, Saxon. How ya doin’, buddy? But what did I tell you about that barkin’?” The dog gives an acknowledging rumble as it accepts Sammy’s affection. “Aubrey, this is Saxon. Saxon, Aubrey.”

I step into the home, momentarily distracted from my internal tormentor by the adorable shaggy hound that prances over to me. “Oh, my. Hello there, Saxon. Even more handsome than your owner, I see!” His tail wags happily as I pet the furry beast.

Nice one. Why not just tell the skinnie he’s ugly to his face?

I stop scratching Saxon’s head and straighten up, my face contorting further in a furious grimace. Already bored of me, the dog spins back toward his owner as Sammy rummages in a kitchen drawer. “Here we go. Let’s get these candles lit.” He sets the wax cylinders on a tiny dining room table before striking a match and bringing it to wick, allowing a moment for the flame to pass to each candle.

With a flick of his wrist, the match extinguishes and Sammy puts his hands on his hips. “Better. At least we can see somethin’ now!” His eyes meet mine; with effort, I’ve reset my expression back to a neutral one. “Hey, uhh… sorry to do this, but I gotta take this big lunk out to potty. If I don’t, he’s gonna make a stinky mess in here. Will you be alright for a minute while I run downstairs?” I nod, and with a snap of his fingers the sheepdog falls in tow behind him. Sammy gives me a smile before the patter of feet belonging to both dog and human descend outside the now closed door.

As the subtle illumination continues to brighten the room, I take in the spartan furnishings and near complete lack of decoration. Though the space is clean, there’s hardly anything here. Not even a couch or television reside in the apartment, only a single wooden chair next to the minuscule dining room table.

Wow, you sure picked a winner, didn’t you?

I cautiously step across the room, my eyes coming to rest on the small bed tucked into the opposite corner. Next to it, a shoddy end table holds…

Wait. Is that a clock radio? I move closer, bending down to examine it.

It’s… the same kind that I have.

Guess that’s all this skinnie can afford in this dump.

I straighten up, balling my fists. Shut up. I mean it.

What? I’m just tellin’ ya what you already know! What you’re too afraid to say out loud. This skinnie is a broke chump.

My eyes close and my lip curls. That’s not true. He got a new job, and besides that, why would I give a sh*t how much money he has? He makes me happy.

Pfft. Yeah, that’s gonna solve your problems. How’s he gonna provide for you, huh?

I don’t need him to provide for me. I can do that for myself. Hell, I could provide for both of us!

Some modern woman you are! What next, you’ll have him puttin’ on an apron and washing the dishes? Get real.

Shut up! Why can’t you just leave me alone?!

Leave you alone? You dumb bitch, I AM you! I ain’t a f*ckin’ ghost, though I might as well be with how quick you betrayed me—

“SHUT UP!”

“Whoah, Aubrey? Is everything okay?!” I spin around to watch as the door latches shut behind the man whose home I’m standing in.

The realization of my verbalized outburst causes me to stammer. “I-I’m fine! Everything’s okay! I was just lookin’ at your… at your clock radio here! It’s the same one I got at home!”

Real smooth. He knows you’re a f*ckin’ nutcase now. Pack it up, you blew it, just like I knew you would.

My voice shakes. “U-umm… Th-this is a good brand! I picked this one cuz it’s got a great speaker and really carries the depth of bass notes well. M-most speakers sound too tinny or washed out—“

What are you babbling about now? Look at him! He’s getting annoyed with you!

Sammy cautiously steps forward, momentarily glancing at the clock radio before bringing his eyes back to me. “Aubrey…? You look… pale. Are you sure you’re alright?”

My legs start shaking. “I-I remember hearing ‘So What’ on it for th-the first time. Did you know that even th-though the written key signature of ‘So What’ has no sh-sharps or flats, it has a tonic cord of D and uses the Dorian scale? This m-makes the tonal center change and—and—“

This is pathetic. Just throw yourself out the f*ckin’ window already and be done with it.

“Aubrey… you’re freakin’ me out. What’s going on?”

It wouldn’t be the first time you cast yourself down and ruined a man’s life, would it? WOULD IT?!

I try to blink the tears back. “I… I…”

My knees give out. I crumple, my tail coiling so tightly around me that it threatens to cut off its own circulation. My hands clap over my face, covering the shame of my muffled sobs.

In an instant, Sammy is on his knees next to me, placing gentle but confused hands on my shoulders. His touch only makes me shrink further inward. “Aubrey…”

You can’t do anything right. You’re a disgrace. You won’t even tell him what’s got you so upset, will you, Aubie?

My stomach churns, the hollow pit within screaming out in silent agony.

Because if you do tell him… he won’t want you anymore.

I grit my teeth, trying to suppress my weeping.

What man would?

With all of my might, I lower my hands and open my eyes. Past the tear-clouded haze, I see Sammy. He is inches away, face awash with worry and fear. He says nothing but keeps his hands on my shoulders, gently rubbing his thumbs up and down my scales to try and calm me. He watches intently as I do everything in my power to compose myself.

What man would want a broken woman like you?

If any man would… it would be Sammy. Please, God. Let it be Sammy.

I draw in a shaky breath and step toward oblivion.

“Eight months ago… I was in the hospital…”

—

The first thing I remembered was a rhythmic electronic thrum. I recalled hearing it and immediately superimposing the furtive piano intro of Art Drakey’s ‘Moanin’’ on top of it. The beat didn’t quite line up, but the ivory in my mind slowed itself adequately to keep time.

Despite the steady beeping belonging to a heart monitor, I didn’t know where I was. I couldn’t open my eyes and my head hurt like a son of a bitch. The pain came in waves, starting off localized and manageable before spreading out across my body. First was my arms. Even attempting to lift them off of the bed beneath me was a herculean effort, and the moment I tried the bruises and lacerations made themselves aggressively known. Dull throbs and stings fired through my scales and elbow feathers until I stopped trying.

Next was my back. Any effort to sit up was only met with agonized soreness, my vertebrae entirely uncooperative. I wasn’t sure if my tail was still attached to my body since I couldn’t see or feel it at all. In reality, it hung next to me in a separate ceiling-suspended sling, but I wouldn’t know that for a while yet.

Around the time I began trying to unsuccessfully test my neck’s range of motion, a set of footsteps made their way past Art Drakey’s everlasting piano solo. Some murmured voices later, the footsteps vanished again. After a few more minutes of trying and failing to turn my head, a voice appeared.

“Aubrey… are you awake?”

I thought I replied “Yes, I’m awake,” but in reality my teeth didn’t move and my tongue didn’t flex. All I provided was an affirmative moan.

“Good. I’m Dr. Weber. Do you know where you are right now?”

“No, I don’t,” I grumbled past my still half-paralyzed mouth with a single guttural syllable.

“You’re at the Metropolitan Hospital. Do you have any memory of what happened?”

To this, I responded with neither grunt nor gurgle. Instead, I racked my brain, trying to decrypt the riddle of what would cause me to end up in a hospital, and in a state like this.

I heard a chair slide forward and felt a set of fingers lightly come to rest on my own. “I’m… terribly sorry to say this… but you had an accident.”

An accident? What sort of—

“Your neighbors called us. Said that they heard a loud crashing sound in your home. When they went to investigate, the front door was open. And… you were inside, unconscious.”

I tried to shake my head, convinced this was just an elaborate dream involving sleep paralysis. I was probably just aching because of—

“You… fell down the stairs.” He sighs. “You’ve been here for two weeks. And…”

No. Oh my God, no.

“You had a miscarriage. We couldn’t save the child. I’m sorry.”

This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t rea—

All at once, agonizing pain fired through my right knee. It felt as though someone was prying my knee cap off of my body with a pair of rusty tongs, wrenching the cartilage and tearing the tendons loose. I screamed, opening my mouth as wide as I could, forcing any air that had found its way into my broken body out in a single, sustained shriek. At once, the doctor scrambled upward, barking orders to someone else. I didn’t even feel the needle pierce my arm. Slowly, the pain in my knee subsided and my consciousness slipped away once more.

My baby… I lost my baby…

When I regained consciousness, the pain returned immediately, but this time I did not scream. I wanted to. I wanted so desperately to wail and gnash my teeth, I wanted to fly from the bed and destroy everything around me. I… wanted to draw razor blades across my wrists.

Instead, I ran away. Deep in the recesses of my mind, buried in the alcoves and twisting hallways, I came across a small lounge. Within, a single record player with a mountain of records stacked next to it greeted me. All of my favorites were here: John Coalmane, Miles Cratis, Art Drakey, Horace Bronze… album after album after album, all excitedly waiting to find their way to the record spindle to dazzle and enthrall me with their joyous, energetic highs and their solemn, soulful lows.

The doctors would come and go, asking me how I was feeling, testing my appendages, administering more medicine. I barely responded to them. I had no interest. I was too enraptured by the music, hidden away in the one place where pain couldn’t find me. Slowly, the splints and bandages were removed as the scrapes and bruises healed.

Of course, the worst of it was my knee. The doctors explained that my leg had essentially twisted itself around a hundred and eighty degrees during my descent. Even after setting it back into place with surgery, the likelihood of the appendage being completely paralyzed was so high it was practically a guarantee. Even if I did miraculously retain feeling in my lower leg, the knee would never be the same.

Their words rolled over me inconsequentially, drowned out by blissful brass and playful percussion. Even as they poked and prodded the cartilage, searing pain blasting through the appendage and the rest of my body, I didn’t flinch or groan. I was too enraptured by Miles Cratis, playing songs for me he’d never played for anyone else, just for me in my own personal sanctuary. I knew the records well enough to remember most without flaw, but after expending my internal catalog several times my imagination started forming improv sessions, combinations of sounds and styles that sometimes worked and sometimes didn’t. That’s the true joy of jazz—many times artists just throw things at the wall and see what sticks. Despite my broken body, within my own mind I had found paradise.

However, it was short-lived. The first time I registered any sort of outward emotion after my initial outburst was when they switched me to a new bed, one that would support me sitting up. Until then I’d been content to merely stare at the ceiling whenever my eyes weren’t closed, pissing into a bag and caring not about anyone or anything around me. I’d shut everything out in favor of my music. But when they situated me on the new mattress, my eyes were able to lower themselves for the first time to…

My stomach. My smooth, hollow form and the now vacant womb it concealed. The pronounced bulge that had once hidden away an infant no more than a month away from breathing its first breath, letting out its first cry, opening its eyes for the first time was now absent. In its place… nothing. Emptiness. A void filled only with “what could have been”.

All at once, the music stopped. The only sound was that of the retching sobs that leaked past my gritted teeth. Tears streamed down my cheeks and I went into a panic. The nurses who had just transported me had to restrain my arms as I began grasping at my midsection, convinced it was an optical illusion and that my baby was still there, merely obscured by the hospital gown or the odd angle. My baby was so close to being born. They were going to fill my life with joy and love. I wanted them so badly.

I only calmed down when they jammed another needle into my arm and fired more chemicals into my body. As sleep overtook me, the vision of my little miracle smiling up at me as I cradled them in my arms faded away forever.

It was the last time I cried in the hospital.

My first visitor didn’t arrive until a week after I initially woke up. The tall pterodactyl stepped through the doorway holding a small vase stuffed full of flowers. He set it on the vacant table next to my bed before peering down at me. My eyes were open, focusing on nothing in particular as another rip-roaring solo blasted through my internal record player’s immaculate speaker. Hiding in my lounge had transitioned to less of an escape from the physical pain since most of my bruises had healed and my knee, still bound in a sling, had reduced its presence to a dull throbbing. Now the music had become an escape from my emotions.

He offered a gentle, sad smile. “How are you holding up, Carter?”

I didn’t respond.

“The others from the station send their well-wishes and sympathies. Believe it or not, Ruth was asking about you. Was worried because she hadn’t seen you for a few weeks.”

The name barely meant anything to me.

The commissioner pulled over a chair and sat next to the bedside. He folded his hands in his lap, staring at the space between his feet for a moment before he raised his eyes to me again. “Do you remember what happened?”

My only response was to turn my head and meet his gaze. My expression was apathetic. I did not smile, nor did I frown. I merely looked at the being seated next to me before turning away from him again to stare at nothing.

I remembered what happened. I didn’t at first, but it returned to me. The late-night carefree whistling. The lackadaisical attitude. The smell of bourbon on his breath. The shouting match. My pleas with him to change his ways, to go back to being the man that I had married instead of the drunken oaf he had become.

I remembered his yell, and the shove that sent me into the air. I remembered seeing his eyes for the last time, hazy, incoherent, and utterly loveless as they rose into the sky.

I remembered the blame. The blame of my husband for being in such a drunken stupor that he would do that to me, but even more than that… the blame of myself. Blame for putting myself in that position, for having married a man capable of doing something like this. Blame for not catching the railing of the stairs and preventing my fall. Blame for being so careless with such a precious life inside of me that was now lost forever.

I had convinced myself that my child’s death was my fault.

I spoke none of this aloud, content to simply return to my music, but the commissioner placed a hand on mine as though in reply. “I’m terribly sorry this happened to you, Aubrey. Truly sorry. I can’t even imagine.”

Commissioner Aaron was the only visitor I received.

—

The candles atop the dining room table are about halfway consumed. At some point during my rambling, Sammy had helped me to my feet and set me on the edge of his bed before quickly retrieving the solitary dining room chair and sliding it over to sit across from me. Though I didn’t see his face for most of my story, my focus too far off as I recalled that horrific time, his attention never strayed from me. He didn’t interrupt, merely listening to the words that tumbled past my lips. Even Saxon was patient and attentive, lounging on a nearby folded blanket on the floor, peering at me past the strands of shaggy white hair that hung over his eyes.

I stare at my shoes, my eyes dry and weary. A faint smile tugs at my lips as I gently shift my right knee. It feels tense after the several flights of stairs and my topple to the floor, but it still moves. “Frankly, it’s a blessing that my knee still works. It took a lot of physical therapy, and it’s still not perfect, but I’m glad I don’t have to use a cane or a wheelchair. Now, it’s… a reminder, I guess. One I’ll probably always have, for the rest of my life.”

I bring my eyes up to meet Sammy’s. He meets them attentively, his face awash with sympathy. I try to smile, but my lip quivers. “That’s everything. That’s all of me. I wanted to tell you all of this sooner… I needed to be honest with you about everything… but I just couldn’t until it boiled over.” I fight back the tears that begin churning up again. “I’m a broken woman, Sammy. I was going to be a mother and I lost my baby. And I just don’t know if you want to be with a woman as broken as I am.”

In response, Sammy gingerly rises from his seat and closes the half-stride gap between us. He bends down and gently wraps his arms around me. Though his actions are slow and deliberate, I still can’t help but gasp in response. In his embrace, he whispers to me. “I’m so sorry, Aubrey. I’m sorry for everything that happened to you. But none of this changes how I feel about you. Not in the slightest.”

I shudder at his words, clenching my teeth to suppress the sob as I grip the back of his shirt. I cling to him, terrified that he might slip away from me. He pulls me closer, caressing my hair as I bury my face in his shoulder. Makeup and tears stain his handsome shirt, but he doesn’t complain, simply cradling me in his arms as I weep.

Sammy. Please. Please don’t reject me. I’m sorry for being so broken. I want to be with you. I…

I…

With a delicate motion, he shifts backward, bringing his gaze to meet mine. I hold my breath as I stare into his deep blue eyes, twin swirling galaxies of compassion and kindness that etch themselves upon my heart. His lips part; as if in slow motion I watch them form the words before he speaks them.

“I love you.”

At once, the veil of darkness around me shatters. I let out a singular cry, one of bliss, relief, solace and triumph. I try to press my lips against his, but I can barely move, sapped of all strength by the deluge of emotions that wash over me. His warm touch comforts me, and his soft kiss causes my heart to swell with affirmation and longing. When my breathing finally steadies itself enough for me to articulate words, I form the ones I so desperately wanted to say earlier tonight, the words I want to repeat over and over again:

“I love you, Sammy.”

I melt in his embrace, shuddering away the last vestiges of my sorrow and pain in residual sobs. In their place flows the love and acceptance of this human who stopped to compliment my humming of a jazz tune at a bus stop. Why fate saw fit to bring him into my life, I’ll never know, but in this moment I am eternally grateful.

The light begins to dim as one of the smaller candles expends the last of its energy and gives up its spirit in a sprig of extinguished smoke. My trembling has subsided and my stuttered sobs have been replaced with gentle breaths as Sammy takes a seat next to me on the bed. I rest my head against his chest, hearing his heartbeat. It drums out a rhythm filled with love for me; mine taps out its own steady solo of reciprocation. He runs his comforting hands across my back, reassuring me, wordlessly accepting me, flaws and all.

With a sigh, I lift my eyes to meet his. “I’m sorry about all this. I didn’t want to ruin our night, but I couldn’t keep it bottled up any longer. I… had to tell you. I had to be sure you wouldn’t reject me.”

He smiles and runs a soft hand against the side of my face. “You didn’t ruin anything. I’m glad you trusted me enough to tell me this, but I meant what I said before. Everything that happened to you… none of it changes a thing about how I feel. If anything, it only convinces me of how strong you are.”

I lower my head. “I was a mess for a really long time, Sammy. It all hurt so much, I just couldn’t escape the prison I made for myself in my head. It took a long time for me to even be able to get out of bed, let alone function like a normal person.” The end of my tail quivers in my lap. Pins and needles communicate how long it’s been stationed in its defensive posture.

Sammy glances down at it before placing his hands gently on the appendage. It twitches in surprise at his touch, but quickly relaxes as he strokes its feathers. “I can’t imagine, Aubrey. I’ve… never been in a position like that. My ex-wife and I never had any kids, thank God. It would have made the divorce so much worse if we did. But if she had gotten pregnant while we were together, and we lost the baby… I’d have been devastated.”

My hands come to rest atop his, but he releases my tail and balls his fingers into fists. A scowl forms on his lips. “I’d have been devastated… but I’d have been there for her. And I sure as f*ck wouldn’t have been the reason for it happening.” His eyes snap up to meet mine. “Is your ex-husband still around? Because if he is, I’d very much like to have some choice words with him.”

I gently wrap my fingers around his fists and let out a sigh. “He’s not in the picture anymore. Truthfully, that night was the last time I saw him. When I returned home, our car was gone along with most of his belongings. I couldn’t afford the mortgage on my own so I had to sell the house.” I try to extend a sympathetic smile. “For what it’s worth, if I saw him again I’d also have choice words, or more.”

Sammy’s anger persists for a moment before he finally relinquishes it, uncurling his fists and accepting my fingers interlacing with his. He shakes his head. “I just can’t believe there’d be someone like that in this world. Human or dinosaur. You just… don’t do that. It’s despicable.” His eyes quickly widen. “Aubrey, I would never hurt you. I promise you that.”

I lean forward and kiss him. “I know, Sammy. You’re a gentle, loving person. You’re exactly the man I want.”

A warm smile slowly forms on his lips and he returns my kiss. “I love you, Aubrey.”

His words fill me with warmth. I lean forward into his embrace, nuzzling against his neck as he caresses my back. It takes a moment for me to notice, but the familiar feathered appendage that had been barricading itself against my stomach has finally withdrawn, instead wearily resting upon the floor next to the bed. I nudge myself even closer, bringing our bodies into contact. I feel Sammy tense up but he doesn’t pull away, instead continuing to offer his comfort and warmth to me.

I want him. I want to be with him. I want to make love to him. I want to feel his arms around me. I want to feel his body against mine. I want to feel him inside of me. I want to share my love with him physically and emotionally. I want… I…

My jaw pops as I let out an enormous yawn. My hands fire up to the sides of my face in embarrassment. “Ouch.”

Sammy leans back, first looking at me with concern, then with amusem*nt. “’Ouch’ is right, I heard that one. Sheesh!”

I giggle, then let out a weary sigh. “I’m… I’m sorry, Sammy. I really did want to… be with you tonight, but I’m exhausted. I feel like I’m about to pass out.”

He shakes his head before offering me a gentle smile. “It’s okay, Aubrey. There’s no rush on that sorta thing.” He averts his eyes and blushes. “I-I mean… I want that, too, but… I want it to be the right time for both of us. You went through a lot tonight.”

I rub my thumb across the crescent moon pendant still dangling around my neck. “You’re a really special guy, Sammy. I’m… happy you fell in love with me.”

He draws me closer still, his breath sending a tingle down my spine. “I’m happy you fell in love with me, too.” His kiss is soft and tender, full of hope and affirmation. He slowly parts from me and rises from the bed, glancing over toward the closet. “The bed’s all yours. I think I got an extra pillow and blanket in there. Saxon and I will have a little slumber party on the floor over—“

My fingers tighten on his shirt sleeve. He glances down at me in confusion. “Sammy. Just because we’re not gonna have sex right now doesn’t mean you have to sleep on the floor.”

He co*cks an eyebrow. “A-are you sure? I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable…”

I gaze up at him, though keeping my eyes open is growing more difficult. “Your arms around me have made me the most comfortable I’ve been since I got out of the hospital all those months ago.”

He stands stock still for a moment, his cheeks brightening another shade of red before he reaches down to unlace his shoes. I bend over to unbuckle the straps on the backs of my own shoes, setting them off to the side before bringing my legs up onto the bed and scooting back. He climbs onto the mattress next to me; my arms immediately encircle him and my tail slinks around to meet the flat of his back. He returns my embrace, gazing at me with comfort and security. I nuzzle myself against his chest, the scent of his cologne filling my nostrils as my breathing steadies. I feel his fingers run through my hair before reality fades away and sleep claims me.

For the first time in eight months… not a single nightmare intrudes my rest.

Chapter 12: Pierce

Chapter Text

In an instant, my eyes fly open and I lurch upward, gasping for air and clutching at nothing but the tangled bed sheet wrapped around my claws. It takes a moment for the red to fade from my vision and my breathing to steady. My heart beats loud in my ear canals, its throbs slowly draining into dull sensations of pain across the still freshly-sutured gashes peppering my body. I unconsciously place a hand on my bandaged arm only to quickly pull it away as the ache rapidly turns to a sharp sting.

I sigh and close my eyes. What was I dreaming about? Whatever it was, it startled me awake something fierce.

My eyes reopen, and as they regain focus I glance to my side. The spot where Bianca would normally be laying is vacant. The lack of bright sun angling itself across my bedroom floor gives me a clue to the riddle of time; my bedside clock quickly solves it. Nearly eleven AM. I try to roll my shoulders but the lacerations in my back instantly remind me of their existence, blinding pain causing my jaw to clench and my breathing to hitch.

This is how it’s gonna be for a while, I suppose.

I lurch out of bed, the normal aches of a rough night’s sleep drowned out by the boiling lava pouring from the bandaged scales and flesh under my arms and back. I grit my teeth and plant my tail on the wood flooring beneath me to keep from slumping into the bed again. After a few moments, the pain subsides enough for me to shuffle over to the bathroom sink, pour a glass of water and uncap the bottle of painkillers my doctor prescribed to me.

Let’s see… “Take one every eight hours, as needed.” I briefly consider taking eight every one hour, but decide to play it safe and pop only two of the suckers down my throat. I’ve heard of fellas getting addicted to this stuff, and I’m not about to start collecting vices beyond the few bucks Bianca lets me spend on sports betting each week. I think the Yankees got a real shot this year, especially with all-stars like Yogi Terra and Mickey Mangle leading the—

My hopeful rumination is interrupted by the lacerations on my back jolting me with pain as I straighten up. I hiss through my teeth, letting out a silent curse at the son of a bitch who put me in this sorry state. Even though Murphy is dead, I can’t help but continue being angry at him. He could have at least done me the courtesy of keeping his attacks localized. Eviscerated arms I can deal with, but the punctures on my plates and trapezius muscle are especially annoying.

I didn’t wake up until halfway into Friday; I barely knew where I was and, allegedly, gave the nurses at the clinic a bit of a fight as I tried to climb out of bed in my medication-induced stupor. It was Bianca who got me to calm down, her firm grip on my shoulders and gentle gaze giving me enough clarity to accept laying back down and allowing the nurses to continue switching over my bandages.

As always, Bianca is my rock, a stable foundation in my otherwise tumultuous life. She was there to comfort me when I received my second strike. She was there to listen to me vent after Charles saddled me with yet another skinnie. And she was there as I lay injured and helpless in a clinic bed. Martha, Bianca’s sister, watched the kids, leaving my wife to keep me company as I healed up, though she did run home to check on them when we had that freak power outage on Friday night. By the time I woke up the next day, the lights were back on and she was by my side again.

I wasn’t discharged from the clinic until late last night. The kids were ecstatic to see me, even though I had only been away for a couple days. Bianca had to ask them to be gentle with the hugs, considering my still fresh bandages and irritable wounds. Angela started crying when she saw my wrappings, asking what had happened through her sobs. I told her I got into a little scrape at work, nothing to be worried about, and that I’d be right as rain before she knew it. Russell, the little smart aleck, asked if I was turning into a mummy. I told him that he’d be joining me in the pyramids if he kept up with those wisecracks.

It was late, though, and past their bedtime, so after we said goodnight to Martha and sent her on her way we shooed the kids up to bed. I wasn’t far behind them, making my way upstairs with some difficulty and onto my mattress in a stinging thud. I’m not one to usually sleep for more than about seven hours, but these injuries have been sapping the life out of me. At least they’re healing quickly, based on what the doctor said.

Hoping to feel the effects of the painkillers soon, I take a seat on Bianca’s vanity stool and slowly unwrap the bandages encircling my left arm. The dried, sticky discharge painfully pulls at the loosened scales surrounding my sutures; I wince as the last layer comes up and fresh air scrapes against the angry gashes. There are nearly a dozen craters and valleys across both my arms, all excavated by the claws of a now dead baryonyx. I dab at the sparse rivulets of blood that escape from the irritated flesh before wrapping fresh dressing around the appendage.

Several minutes later, I finish with the other arm, having performed a similar ceremony to the first. Glancing up at the mirror, I rotate myself a bit to examine the reflection of my shoulder. Just as I consider how best to tackle the project of changing those bandages, the sound of a familiar car pulling into the driveway interrupts me. A few moments later, several sets of various-sized footfalls enter the home, the voices of Russell and Angela on full energetic display. A third voice bids them calm as it ascends the stairs.

“Oh! You’re up." Bianca smiles at me as she steps past the bedroom threshold. “Did you sleep well?”

I shrug, feeling the bite of my back injury in doing so. “Well as I could. Sorry I wasn’t up for church this morning.”

She moves forward, gently placing herself beside me and planting a kiss on my cheek. She exercises caution to not touch any bandaged part of my body, having witnessed exactly how much pain I’m in across the past few days. Thankfully, the painkillers are starting to work their magic. She speaks in a protective, motherly tone while watching my face in the mirror’s reflection. “Can I get you anything?”

“Actually, could you give me a hand with changing the dressing on my shoulder?”

She smiles, kisses me again and steps back to the door before calling down to the children. “Russell! Angela! Watch TV for a few minutes, I’ll be down to make lunch shortly!” They offer their acknowledgment of their mother’s words, though the sound of the television indicates that they’re way ahead of her on that particular command. She closes the door and moves toward our closet. “Let me change out of my church clothes, then I’ll help.”

The dress draped over Bianca’s body hugs her curves in a subtle and tasteful manner, but I still find myself staring as she begins disrobing. Noticing my hungry gaze, she offers a coy smile as the silk covering loosens and falls away, exposing her undergarments to me. However, her words take on a matter-of-fact tone. “Do you wanna tell me about what happened?”

I blink. “What do you mean?”

“With your arms and back. With that fella that attacked you and did this to you.” Her smile is replaced with a notable frown as she collects more casual Sunday afternoon attire from a hangar.

“You’ve already got the story. Disgruntled asshole in a pool hall jumped me and Marty with a couple of his goons. We handled ‘em, but the baryonyx got a few good hits on me, plus one real dirty one.” I jab a thumb at the bandages adorning my back.

“Right, and why did this baryonyx and his cronies attack you outta nowhere?”

I click my tongue. I know it’s a woman thing to ask questions they already know the answer to, but it’s still frustrating, especially given my current pain levels. “Like I told you, they were trying to rob us. It was the end of the day, we had a stack of dues in the car, and they thought they’d pull one over on us with a sneak attack and take that money for themselves.”

Now dressed, Bianca moves across the bedroom to my back. She gestures for me to turn toward the mirror, which I do. “I don’t know that I buy that, Pierce.”

My reflection’s eyebrow arches at her. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“Don’t be stupid, of course not. But I don’t buy that reason.” She begins undoing the bandage on my shoulder, the movement causing me to wince despite her gentle touch. My reflection stares at her in befuddlement; when she notices, she shakes her head. “Do I have to spell it out for you?”

“Considering you’ve completely f*ckin’ lost me, yeah, I could use a little help.”

Her lips purse at the utterance of foul language, but she shrugs and continues pulling the tape from my back. “You just got done telling me about Charles threatening your life, and out of nowhere some nobodies try to kill you. That timing doesn’t strike you as odd?”

I shake my head. “Charles gave me a second strike. Why would he try to have me killed if I haven’t gotten a third one yet?”

“Maybe you did get a third strike. Maybe his way of telling you was this attempt on your life.”

My snout scrunches. “In that case, why wouldn’t he have just had me done in at the clinic? The staff are friends of the Herdsters, they’d probably smother me with a pillow for a hundred bucks.”

Bianca huffs as she meets my reflection’s eyes. “Look, I’m just saying this is an awfully big coincidence. We already know Charles doesn’t like you. Why do you think it’s impossible that he’d have a hand in this?”

“I never said it was impossible. I just don’t know for certain that it was him and not just some dipsh*t lowlife trying to score some easy dough.” I sneer. “Last time Murphy tries to pull that on anyone.”

Bianca’s expression softens. She knows my meaning, so her next question surprises me slightly. “How, exactly, did you get out of this fight in one piece?”

I try to smile, though the last throngs of bandage peeling away from my scabbed wounds causes it to falter. “You shoulda seen the other guy.”

She returns the smile, but presses the question. “I’m serious. With how bad of shape you’re in, and the fact that Marty got knocked clean out… how did you pull through this? How did you get yourself to the clinic? They said you were out cold by the time you arrived, and I don’t think two unconscious dinosaurs can drive a car.”

My hands fold in my lap as I consider. I’ve got no reason to keep anything from her… so why didn’t I mention him before? I mean, in regards to what happened. Lord knows I vented relentlessly to her when the skinnie was assigned to me by Charles. But now—

A sharp jolt of pain fires through my shoulder as Bianca applies ointment to the lacerations. I hiss through my teeth, earning a slightly sympathetic look from my darling wife but no uttered apology. Instead, she waits for my response, rubbing the chemicals across my scales and dabbing at the residue with a handful of cotton balls.

Fearing the further torture she might inflict if I keep my silence any longer, I answer her. “It was about the last thing I expected, but Samuel stood up to Murphy. Didn’t do much besides piss him off, but it gave me a chance to get the upper hand. We got Marty to the car before things got dark for me, and he drove us to the clinic.”

Her hands stop and she stares at my reflection in bewilderment. “Samuel? That human that Charles assigned to you?”

I nod. “The very same.”

Her eyebrows flit. “You certain he wasn’t trying to hit you and missed?” My only response is to look at her with contempt. “Come on, Pierce. Why would the human who you held at gunpoint suddenly help you? He probably screwed up and watched his partners die in that pool hall. Figured he had to stay close to you and Marty to survive after a bungled job.”

My snout scrunches again. “If that’s the case, why wouldn’t he have driven Marty and I off a pier? We were both so injured that we wouldn’t have raised any fuss at being put out of our misery.”

Another sharp pain in my shoulder indicates Bianca is being a little less gentle than she otherwise might be to emphasize her point. “Look—All I’m telling you is that you’re too trusting of people. And I don’t think you should trust that human. There’s a very real chance he’s already in Charles’s pocket and is just waiting for the right opportunity to turn over on you.”

I mull it over as she begins applying fresh bandages to my back. “I’m not so sure, Bianca. Yeah, I lost a good amount of blood, but I saw what I saw. Samuel wasn’t trying to attack me, he distracted Murphy. In fact, after Murphy was taken out, Samuel picked up my gun. I thought for a second that he was gonna do me in right then and there… but instead, he handed it to me and asked me to help get Marty out to the car.”

Bianca seems to consider my words before shaking her head with a sigh. “Well, if you want my opinion, if the skinnie isn’t in Charles’s pocket, he should be in yours.” For some reason, hearing Bianca say the word “skinnie” makes me wince. She doesn’t notice. “I know you’ve got no love for their kind. Neither do I. But it’d be better to have a dog on a leash than for it to be running rampant and biting at your ankles.”

All I manage is an acknowledging hum. She works in silence for the next minute or so, letting her advice linger in the air as she finishes wrapping the bandages around my shoulder. Placing her gentle hands on my arms, she smiles. “All done. I’ll go get started on lunch.”

I rotate my head toward her, the pain in my back reduced to a dull throbbing between the medication and redressing. “Thank you, Bianca. I’ll think about what you said.”

She leans down and kisses me. “I know you’ll do the right thing. I didn’t marry a pushover, after all.” Her tail offers a departing swish as she moves through the door and out of sight, her voice calling to the children on her way downstairs.

I turn back to the mirror, staring at the mangled mess of dark blue scales that stares back at me. If Bianca is right, and Samuel is in Charles’s pocket… I’m probably f*cked. Any maneuver I try to plan would be fed right back to that triceratops bastard, and I can’t just dump the human because that’ll be my death sentence.

Is that why Charles was so keen on getting Samuel tied up with me? I mean, it certainly seemed like the two had never met before everything went down on Wednesday, but maybe it was some sort of act to throw me off. And Charles knows my relationship with skinnies, that I’d be distrustful of Samuel, and I was.

I… was. After Murphy’s pool hall, I’m not so sure anymore. If Samuel was in Charles’s pocket, there’d have been no reason for him to save my ass from Murphy. He coulda just left me to bleed out in that damned place. Instead, he got Marty and I to the clinic.

He saved my life.

My eye twitches as conflict pours into my conscience. I suddenly recall the dream I had this morning. What was done to me. What I had to do. What it cost me, and how it changed the man I am today.

Am I really going to forget all of that in favor of one lousy human doing one noble thing for me…?

I shake my head. Bianca’s right. It’d be better to have the skinnie in my pocket rather than let him loose. And if worse comes to worse and he’s already Charles’s property… guess I’m f*cked anyway.

—

The ceaselessly sweltering sunbeams bounce from glass to concrete, leaving a shimmering layer of heat on the surface of the road. Under advisem*nt of my doctor and personal consultant, I’ve chosen to not operate heavy machinery on this balmy, beautiful Monday morning. Of course, what I mean by that is, Bianca demanded that I not drive while under the influence of my painkillers, so now Marty had to cart his sleep-deprived ass all the way out to the suburbs to pick me up. I asked my darling wife to give me a lift into work, but I guess the life of a housewife with two kids on the tail end of their summer break is far too busy to accommodate such a preposterous request.

Another yawn escapes Marty as he keeps his eyes forward, his ‘57 Chevrolet Bel Air providing a comfortable transport to the office. I still prefer my DeVille, but beggars can’t be choosers. He notices the stale air and fills it. “I’m glad to see you’re mending up pretty well. You sure you’re ready for a full workload?”

I shrug. “I’ll be fine. Spent enough time in bed over the past several days, I’m about ready to actually stretch my legs.” He nods and the uncomfortable silence returns. This time I try to repel it. “Were you back to work on Friday?”

He takes another drag of his lit cigarette, pushing the thin trail of smoke from his lips and out the cracked driver-side window. “Oh, yeah. ‘Sides the lump on my noggin, doc said I was right as rain so I didn’t need to take a day off.”

“Gotcha. Anything interesting happen?”

Marty opens his mouth to reply, but hesitates. After a moment he shakes his head. “Not really, no. Bureaucratic stuff, a vote at the office that we ran security for.”

“Mm. And Samuel, how—“

“Pierce, you really oughta—wait. Did you call him by his name?” The indignance that started to spark in his voice was instantly quashed by his realization.

“I did. That is his name, ain’t it?”

Marty’s eyes dart over to me before refocusing on the road. “You… surprised me is all. I was expecting you to call him—well, it don’t matter. I’m still gonna make my point. You really oughta give Sam a chance, Pierce. He’s a good guy. He helped us at—“

“I know. I was there.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t. Down for the count and all. And I overheard him talkin’ to Charles at—“

I shift forward. “What did he say to Charles?”

Another glance, this time with concern. “Whaddya mean? He told Charles what went down at the pool hall.”

“Did he—“ I catch myself before I blurt out more. I trust Marty, but I also don’t know that I want to divulge all of my distrust of Charles right here and now. Clearing my throat, I rearrange my thoughts. “After you got knocked out, I took care of the bartender, but Murphy got the drop on me. Did a number on my back. He was about to deliver the coup de grâce to yours truly when Samuel popped outta nowhere and skewered the son of a bitch in the leg. Gave me the chance to send him to bed. Is that what Samuel told Charles?”

Marty nods. “Long and the short of it, yeah. I wasn’t in the room with them so I didn’t catch everything, but… I do know that Sam was real torn up about what he did. He ain’t never killed anyone before.”

I blink. “And he still hasn’t. I’m the one that finished Murphy off.”

“You know what I mean, Pierce. He’s upset because he helped kill a guy. I spoke to him afterward, tried to console him and tell him he did the right thing, but even the next day he was pretty shaken. He seemed to calm down after a bit, but it was a rough thing that happened to him.”

An involuntary scoff escapes my lips. “Rough for him? What about us?”

Marty’s eyes flash in my direction. “This is exactly what I’m talkin’ about, Pierce. You keep treatin’ Sam like he’s less than us. Yeah, he might not have gotten clobbered or slashed up like you or me, but he had to endure a hell of a lot more than most guys at their first day on the job.” I sigh, but before I can respond he continues. “My memory’s still hazy about how that fight went down, but I remember clear as a bell what I said to you outside the jewelers, about how you were treating Sam that day. It’s a goddamn miracle that he didn’t run outta that pool hall and leave both of us to die. That’s the kind of man Samuel is, Pierce. His species don’t matter, he is a good man and you’d better start treatin’ him like one.”

Spent of breath and fury, Marty’s fingers tighten on the wheel as the air stales again. After a moment, I reply. “May I speak now?” Marty glances at me warily before nodding. “I was going to say that I agree with you. I thought a lot about things while I wasn’t sleeping off these injuries, and… you’re right. Samuel does appear to be a good person.” Though I am genuinely coming around, I still find it difficult to form non-scathing words when referring to a… human.

Though Marty’s tone has softened, it still carries an edge. “Not ‘appears to be’, he is. He is a good person.”

“Yes. He is a good person. And I’m coming around to him. But I’m sure you understand why I am still wary of his kind, so I’ll have to ask for your patience as I reconcile these feelings during my interactions with him. Is that acceptable to you?”

Another wary sideways glance. “So… you’re gonna be nicer to him, yeah?”

“I will try.”

“Pierce…”

“Fine. Yes. I will be nicer to him.”

This finally earns a smile from my partner. “Good. That’s all I wanted to hear. Ya know, when you get to know Sam, he’s actually a pretty witty fella.“

The air between us finally softens as Marty shares a little about what he and Samuel discussed on Friday. As we roll into the parking garage and exit the car, I make sure to thank him for having gone out of his way to pick me up. He lives clear on the other side of town making it a long hike, but he waves it off before grinning and saying I can pay him back by covering lunch today. That sounds like a fair trade to me.

As I pull open the employee entrance, the familiar shape of a human with shaggy brown hair poking out from beneath a flat cap comes into view. He holds two cups of coffee, one in each hand, and is just about to bring one to his lips as he spots us and flinches, nearly spilling the beverage.

“O-oh! Pierce, you’re b-back! I, uhh…” He glances at the two cups, clearly having intended to give one to Marty and keep the other for himself. “I d-didn’t drink any of it yet. I mean, I was about to, but I didn’t, so you can have this one!”

I wave a palm. “Don’t worry about it, Samuel. I’m not much of a coffee drinker.”

Marty, on the other hand, quickly accepts the proffered cup from our human companion and quaffs the hot beverage in two gulps. “Whoo, that hits the spot. Thanks, Sam!”

Samuel scratches the back of his neck. “Don’t mention it.” He turns my way, diverting his eyes before they linger on me for too long. “Uh… How are you feeling, Pierce?”

I shrug and do my best to put on a smile. “Like I got slashed to ribbons by claws and teeth. But I’m still standing, thanks to you.” He stares up at me with his mouth agape as though he never expected me to utter such words. Thinking quick, I wink and give him a friendly nudge on the arm with my fist. “Ya did good, kid—“

He yelps and nearly bowls over backward, spilling coffee all over his pants as he barely keeps his feet beneath him. The force of my gentle tap almost send him sprawling. Marty spins in my direction and balks at me. “Pierce, what the hell, man?”

“Aw, geez. Sorry! I didn’t—sorry!” I whip out my handkerchief and bend down to try and clean up the mess but Samuel recoils away from me. I sigh. “I really didn’t mean to shove ya that hard. I was… ugh, look, I’m sorry.”

The human eyes me warily before turning to Marty. Though the diplodocus beside us doesn’t look thrilled at my fumbled attempt to be casual, he relents with a nod. Samuel accepts the handkerchief. “It’s alright. You dinosaurs are pretty damn strong, but I also wasn’t expecting it. No big deal.”

I shake my head. “No, it is a big deal. I was sh*tty to you last week and now I nearly knocked you on your ass. I’m… gonna try to do better.” Marty’s eyebrow raises at me. I clear my throat. “I’m gonna do better. You’re a part of the team, right? I should treat you like that, especially after what you did for me and Marty.”

Wiping as much coffee away from his pants as he can, Samuel glances up at me suspiciously. After a moment, a small smile tugs at his lips. “I appreciate that, Pierce. Thank you.”

Before I can speak up again, Marty interjects. “Hey, fantastic! We’re all friends now! So, Sam! How’d that date of yours go?” My brow furrows and Samuel’s fleshy cheeks redden. “I told you I was gonna get the scoop from you come Monday. You owe me some juicy details, pal!”

As Samuel lets out a nervous chuckle, all I can do is shake my head. As much as I’d like to treat the human a little better, I could not be less interested in his love life. A quick idea allows me retreat. “Let me get you a fresh cup of coffee.”

Traversing the corridor of the ground floor level, I pass by several other Herdsters beginning their daily hustle and bustle. The coffee maker in one of the employee lounges is already seeing extensive use, with Cheryl from accounting loading up fresh filters with ground beans and refilling the water basins the moment they’re consumed. I don’t regret not being a coffee drinker as I bear witness to this coordinated chaos in search of wakefulness.

After chatting with some of the desk jockeys in line as we await a fresh pot to fill our grasped foam cups, I head back toward Marty and Samuel with his replenished coffee. I’ll have to do my best to not spill this one all over him, too. Literally the first thing I do is nearly knock him to the ground and make him dump his morning joe all over himself. What a way to win a friend…

I slow my pace, bringing my free hand to the bottom of my chin in contemplation. What, exactly, should I do with him? I definitely agree with Bianca that it’d be better to have Samuel on my side than on Charles’s, especially given the level of honor he displayed at the pool hall. He might not be strong or smart, but loyalty and integrity are fine traits in a man. I just have to hope that he’s not terribly loyal to our boss yet.

I glance to the side of the vacant hallway, catching sight of the door to Charles’s makeshift office. He doesn’t have another more proper residence in the building, having vacated the comfortable and airy upper level vista in lieu of this windowless dungeon of a conference room. Within, several large filing cabinets contain paperwork pertaining to his station. He is a man of closely guarded secrets, only divulging to you what he deems necessary to divulge.

Though the door is closed, he is assuredly inside his office by now. If he wasn’t, the door would be both closed and locked. I step a little further down the hall, noticing the ajar portal leading to the neighboring conference room. This one, though seldom used, has not been converted into an isolated dominion for a methodical and calculating triceratops. I cautiously step toward it, pushing the door open to view its contents.

Within is a large wooden table covered by a thin film of dust. A dozen or so chairs rest around it, musty and purposeless. In the far corner, a collection of filing cabinets yearn to cry out their metallic shriek, but nobody accesses their contents, if they have any to begin with. It’s no wonder most folks don’t like using this space; its lifeless walls and artificial light lend it a sense of dread and isolation. I crane my head, looking past the table toward the closer corner of the room. My eyes fall upon a small vent on the wall, near the floor and about a foot and a half wide.

I wonder—

“What’s up, Pierce? You got that coffee for Sam?” The voice causes me to start, even though I know its source. I step out of the conference room and turn to face Marty and Samuel. My diplodocus partner’s long neck stretches as he peers past me into the vacant space. “What’s goin’ on in there? Nobody ever uses that room.”

I offer an innocent smile. “Nothin’. Thought I saw a mouse. Come on, let’s get our work order for today.” I hand Samuel the still steaming cup which he graciously accepts and we make our way into Charles’s next door quarters.

The morning pleasantries are as hollow as usual. Charles asks me how I’m mending, I tell him that I’m fine. He exchanges the bare minimum of small talk with Samuel and Marty before handing us a list of locations to visit. It’s the end of the month, meaning most of our clients have paid up. Now comes the “round up” where we visit those who have asked for more time or been delinquent on their payments. It can be a little frustrating sometimes when excuses turn to belligerence, but a cursory glance at the list doesn’t lead me to think that any of these shops will put up too much of a fuss today.

It’s by design. Charles wants to put on the front that he cares for Marty and I’s well-being. Doesn’t want to give us too much of a troublesome workload on our return to duty.

Duplicitous prick.

Well, I’ll look on the bright side. This’ll mean more opportunity to get to know Samuel and get on his good side. An easy day will do us all some good, I’ll make sure of it.

And just as I had anticipated, the day soars by in a breeze. Our most problematic client of the morning is one particularly cantankerous quetzacoatlus whose aged, sharpened beak snaps in our direction with each of her titters and complaints. I’m not worried about the old broad legitimately attacking us, but her temper is flared to the point where a finger might get lost if we tried to put hands on her. Marty does his best to defuse her frustration as he politely reminds her that it’s our job to collect union dues, and our stop here is because of her delinquency in payment. He assures her that we’ll get out of her hair and she’ll be in good standing with the Herdsters again if she settles up her debt. With a final weary sigh and a visible sink of her wings, the shopkeep scoops a parcel of bills tucked far into the back of the register’s till and forks it over.

Stepping out of the store and back under the baking sun, Samuel’s eyes squint. Whether due to the bright light or being deep in thought, I can’t say. He’s been shadowing us during our stops, observing our interactions and only piping up when called upon. During one of our first stops, a small drugstore, he was offered a complimentary root beer by the soda jerk on duty. He graciously accepted, enjoying the cold treat on this scorching day. If an interaction like this occurred last week I probably would have punched him in the back of the head and made him spew soda everywhere. Guess I’m turning over a new leaf.

Marty breaks Samuel out of his sun-soaked trance. “Phew! This summer’s never gonna end, huh? What say we grab some lunch?”

I shrug before glancing at the human in our party. He still seems a bit far-off in thought, but nods his acknowledgment. I gesture at him. “You’re the non-herbivore here. Where do you wanna eat?”

This catches his full attention as he stumbles over his words. “Uhh… oh! I, um—I didn’t think about it.” His eyes dart between Marty and I. “S-somewhere that can accommodate us all, I guess?”

Marty grins. “That would be nice! Last time I tried to eat a piece of bacon I couldn’t stop sh*tting for three days.”

Samuel thinks for a moment. “Hmm… well, there’s a little place not too far from here that serves a kick-ass baked potato. I get ‘em fully loaded, but they’ve got plenty of herbivore-friendly toppings, too.”

I glance at Marty who offers an approving nod. I smile down at Samuel. “Sounds good. Point us in the right direction.”

We pile into the Bel Air and head westbound before arriving at the advertised restaurant. From the outside, the joint is nothing to write home about. A shoddy unlit sign and a dingy door would lead you to cruise right past a place like this without a second thought. However, upon pushing through its entrance, I’m met with the heavenly scent of roasting spuds alongside a myriad of other southern-style vegetables. The fella behind the counter, ostensibly pulling double duty as server and chef, offers a warm welcome to the two ill-sized dinosaurs that hunch over in the small establishment alongside their human companion.

Samuel looks up at our crouched posture in embarrassment. “S-sorry, fellas. I didn’t really think about the low ceiling…”

I wave a hand. “So long as their chairs won’t collapse under me, I don’t mind.”

We each peruse the menu. As he stated he would, Samuel orders a baked potato fully loaded with bacon, cheese and sour cream. Marty goes for a vegetarian option called an “Especial” that’s topped with pico de gallo and guacamole. I go with the classic, sans meat, and toss a side of collard greens onto my order. As promised, I pay for lunch.

We crowd around a table, pretty much having the whole restaurant to ourselves. It’s a small place, clearly designed for take-out or street eating more than dine-in, but the air conditioner does the Lord’s work in this continued heat wave. We make small talk until our meal arrives; it’s as succulent as it smells, delivering a dose of comfort food bliss. Marty and I nod our approval to Samuel as we chew our potatoes and veggies, and the small talk steps aside in favor of contented silence.

As I dab the last remnants of potato from my snout, Marty slides out of his chair. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me, I gotta go pinch a loaf.”

Samuel’s eyes widen. “Oh, no. There wasn’t bacon in your potato, was there?”

Marty chuckles. “Nah, I’m good! I just usually go around lunch break. Be back in a few.” His neck winds around near the ceiling of the small restaurant, scoping out a small alcove near the back that likely houses a restroom. Samuel chews the last bite of his food as Marty disappears. Truthfully, I was expecting this to happen around now. Hoping for it. I wanted a little alone time with Samuel.

I clear my throat, catching his attention. “So. I trust today is going a little better for you than last week?”

He smiles nervously. “Y-yeah. Though the day ain’t over yet. There any chance we’re gonna get jumped by ninjas on our next stop?”

A puff of air escapes my nostrils as a smile tugs at my lips. “No, I don’t think so.” I lean a bit closer. “Say, I wanted to ask you. What are your thoughts on Charles?”

His eyebrow raises and he leans away from me slightly. “Is this a test?”

I shake my head, realizing I must look a bit intimidating as I scrutinize his expression. I do my best to soften my own. “Not at all. It’s an honest question.”

He thinks for a moment before shrugging. “I guess I don’t have a strong opinion about him. He offered me a job, and he said some kind things to me at the clinic when… well, when I brought you and Marty in. But aside from that, he seems to be a typical boss. Friendly enough, but more interested in the work gettin’ done than being your friend.”

“And what are your thoughts on me?”

Some of the color drains from his face. I do my best to look non-threatening, though I doubt it’s much good. He stumbles over his words. “Y-you’re—I mean, I don’t have—that is—”

“Samuel. It’s alright. I’m not interrogating you. I’m… trying to get to know you a bit better. I’d prefer for us to be friends.” The last word nearly catches in my throat, but I force it out as naturally as I can.

He gulps before turning his eyes downward. “S-sorry. I’m still sorta wrapping my head around all this.”

“Listen. I’m…” My teeth clamp into my tongue to focus its efforts. I don’t enjoy having to do this, but it must be done. I lower my voice. “I’m only gonna say this once, so listen close. Regarding what I did in that alley, beating you and holding a gun to you… I was doing my job, but I was also pretty upset and took it out on you. Since then, you’ve proved that you’re a stand-up guy. So…” I wince before stepping off the precipice. “I apologize.”

Samuel stares into space as though a ghost hovers above my shoulder. I know there’s nobody behind me, so I merely wait for him to process everything. After a moment, his eyes refocus. “Th-thank you, Pierce. I don’t know what else to say.”

I do my best to grin pleasantly. “Great. Let’s put all of that behind us. Listen, I need your help with a special job. You up for it?”

His eyebrow arches. “Wh-what kind of special job?”

“It’d be something after our shift, back at the Herdsters building. Once we’re done with our rounds, we’ll head back and I’ll tell you more about it, okay?”

“This isn’t a trick or somethin’, is it?”

My grin falters. “Samuel. Aren’t we tryin’ to be friends now? Why would I trick you? I legitimately need your help, and I think you’ll find it in your best interest to—”

“Heya, fellas! Phew—that bathroom was a tight fit. Glad I was able to get my mitts under the faucet to wash my hands!” Marty playfully tousles the hat on Samuel’s head, causing the human to grimace and recoil away, albeit with a grin of his own. “What were you guys gabbin’ about?”

I glance at Samuel who still looks apprehensive. “Not much. I was tellin’ Samuel that Cheryl in accounting had some paperwork that still needed to be filled out. I forgot to bring it up before we left, so we’ll have to swing by later and get it taken care of.”

Marty grins at Samuel. “Hey, we could just swing by now. It’d be no trouble—”

I interrupt. “No, let’s get the rest of the route banged out and head back afterward. No reason to hike all the way now and waste more gas.”

He ponders this for a moment before shrugging. “Don’t matter to me either way. Let’s get a move on, shall we?”

Samuel does not protest against my improvisation.

The rest of the day goes by even smoother than what came before. Aside from the odd argument or sass, each one of our stops end with successful retrieval of the establishment’s owed payment. By the end of it all, I start to think that maybe this human is a good luck charm. His polite, innocent nature even seems to imbalance a few of the more belligerent visits, leading them to acquiesce a bit quicker than usual.

With our last stop handled and a dashboard compartment stuffed full of envelopes, we make our way back toward headquarters. As we travel, I mull over how I want to approach this, and how best I might get hold of what I need. It’s a hell of a gamble, but if Samuel is willing to play ball, I might find some dirt on Charles that’ll let me get the upper hand on him.

As we find our usual spot in the employee lot and Marty throws the parking brake, he angles himself to address both Samuel and I. “Home, sweet home. You know which paperwork it was that Sam needed to get done?”

I nod. “Cheryl should still be in, I’ll get it from her and have Samuel fill it out in one of the conference rooms.” Marty begins to open his door but I interrupt him. “I can take care of it, you don’t need to come in.”

He glances back at me. “What, you want me to sit out here in Tyranno-Satan’s asshole? That potato at lunch was good, but I don’t intend to bake myself in this oven.”

“Of course not. But I was hoping you might be willin’ to grab us a few cold sodas, and maybe stop by Zeke’s bar. I wanted to pick up some betting slips for the game this week, but couldn’t on account of bein’ out of commission all weekend. And I would have gone after work, but…” I gesture toward Marty’s car.

His lips purse as he considers. “I suppose it wouldn’t be a problem.”

Withdrawing my wallet, I hand him a twenty. “This should be enough for the sodas and my slips. Get yourself a few, too.”

In response to the proffered money, his eyes light up. “Well, sh*t. Now it ain’t a problem at all! Alright, I’ll be back in a half hour or so.”

I clap his shoulder. “Thanks, Marty. See you soon.” After Samuel and I climb out of the car, it pulls out of its spot and turns toward the road, disappearing from sight.

The human looks up at me apprehensively. “You still ain’t told me what this is all about…”

“In a minute. I need to run upstairs and talk to Cheryl. Wait for me in the empty conference room next to Charles’s office, if you’d be so kind.”

He walks with me into the building and steps into the disused room as I head upstairs. Cheryl is at her desk, as expected; a homely parasaurolophus with pudgy cheeks and a voice like that black and white cartoon character Snooty Boop. She bats her big eyelashes at me as I approach, once again choosing to conveniently forget that I’m a happily married man. Despite being faithful, I’m not above using an advantage like this, earning a giddy giggle with my compliment of her bangs. She fishes out blank copies of the paperwork I lie about Samuel still needing to fill out, and instantly agrees when I ask her not to share this with anyone else. “If someone asks, I got you the forms and everything’s squared away. Can you do that for me, doll?” Cheryl practically melts at my words, giving me a smile and a wink as I depart.

With the sheets firmly in hand, I make my way back downstairs. As I pass the door that leads to Charles’s office, I gently test the knob. Locked. I give a soft rap with my knuckles. No answer. I assumed he was already at Santiago’s, but now I know for certain.

Within the barren conference room next to Charles’s office, Samuel rocks himself in one of the weary chairs. It creaks and groans in discontent with each of his movements. His eyes meet mine as I step through the portal, nudging the door with my tail to close it behind me. “So what is this all about, Pierce? Why all the cloak and dagger?”

I glance over my shoulder cautiously, despite having just closed the door. No one followed me in. I take a seat across from the human, withdrawing a pen from my jacket pocket and sliding it and the paperwork to him face-down. My hands fold in front of me atop the conference room table, and I take a deep breath. “I want to ask you to do something a little… dishonest.”

He blinks. “Dishonest?”

“It is my suspicion that Charles is our enemy. I believe that he is actively working to have me eliminated, and I believe his intention is to use you to achieve that goal, likely sacrificing you in the process.” As expected, he freezes, staring at me like a deer caught in headlamps. I knew my words would shock him, but the direction in which his mind goes is vitally important.

I watch him carefully. Very carefully. Watching for any sign of duplicity or alternate allegiance. A twitching eye, a throbbing vein, an unusual bead of sweat. Anything that might indicate he serves another master, that my words just threw a wrench into a plan already in motion via opposing forces.

I see no signs of inevitable betrayal, only a stunned, confused human. I try to assuage his discomfort. “If I am wrong, and everything’s on the up and up, then there’ll be no harm in what I ask you to do. But if something is amiss, as I expect it to be, we could be saving our lives and uncovering a lot of corruption in the process.” I frown. “This is obviously a tremendous request for me to make, but I don’t have anyone else to turn to.”

Samuel mirrors my frown. “What about Marty? Why not—”

“Marty is like a brother to me, but he’s also got a soft heart. He’d do everything in his power to avoid conflict, up to and including going to Charles directly. We just can’t afford to go that route.”

His nose scrunches and he crosses his arms, staring at the table between us. After a moment, his eyes meet mine again. “Pierce… I really don’t mean any disrespect with this, but why would I trust you? I mean, I appreciate your apology back in the restaurant and it’s certainly a welcome change of pace to get treated decently, but the fact remains—I just don’t know you that well. I thought you were gonna kill me less than a week ago, and now you’re asking me for favors that… well, I don’t even know what you want me to do yet, but I’m guessing it’s risky based on all this deception and closed-door conversing we’re doing.”

A slow tendril of air passes out of my nostrils. Now it’s my turn to cross my arms, leaning back as I consider how best to talk through this. He has a point—I did want to kill him. I was very close to doing it, too. He got lucky. However, given what transpired on Thursday, perhaps it was a good thing that his luck held out.

My tongue clicks against my teeth. We’ve already come this far. May as well go a little further, for the sake of trust.

“A little over six months ago, my younger brother Francisco was killed. And I know for a fact that it was Charles who ordered the hit.” The phantasm of Franky’s smile intrudes on my mind’s eye and I hear his infectious laugh somewhere off in the distance. I remain steadfast, not letting my emotions get the better of me. “My brother was a flawed man. He had demons with which he was wrestling, and I was helping him fight them off. But Charles decided that Franky ran out of time. He ordered a Herdster enforcer to murder my brother.”

Samuel shakes his head in disbelief. “Jesus, Pierce. That’s awful. But—if Charles did this, why are you still workin’ for him?”

A sigh escapes my lips. “I said that I know Charles ordered the hit, but in reality I don’t have concrete proof. Orders like this almost never get carried out without getting signed off on by a dozen different high-ranking fellas, so it wasn’t a spur of the moment thing. It was planned and accounted for. But I know in my heart that this wouldn’t have happened without Charles’s involvement. He hated my brother and wanted him gone, like he wants me gone now.”

More gears turn inside Samuel’s head. “Why does Charles want you gone?”

My arms find themselves crossed again. “I just got a second strike for killing Eggsy. I… got emotional. I shouldn’t have done what I did, I shoulda brought him in, but I made a call and it was the wrong call. My guess is either I’ve earned a third strike somehow that I don’t know about, or Charles decided I’m more trouble than I’m worth.”

Samuel turns a shade paler at the mention of Eggsy, but presses on. “Y-you said that was a second strike? What was your first?”

“I killed the son of a bitch that killed my brother.”

Practically all color has faded from his visage now. “f*cking hell. How many people have you killed, Pierce?”

“That’s not something for us to get into right now. What matters now is that I need your help, because if my life’s on the line, so is yours.” Samuel’s eyes widen in my direction, and I quickly catch my faux pas. “That wasn’t a threat. I’m saying that Charles uses pawns, and you’re the lowest ranking one he’s got. He will happily sacrifice you if it means finding a checkmate.”

The human goes back into thought, his leg bouncing restlessly under the table. I’m starting to get a little impatient, considering this plan hinges on happening before Marty gets back, but I have to let Samuel make up his mind. I can’t force him into this, he has to join willingly. After a moment, he glances up at me again. “If you did what you said, k-killed a Herdster enforcer, why did they let you go with just a strike? Wouldn’t that be… I dunno, something they’d punish harder for?”

I shrug. “Hell if I know. Honestly, I was prepared to face the consequences and catch a bullet in the back of the head for what I did. Maybe I got some friend upstairs I don’t know about. O’course, if that were the case, I don’t think I’d be in this situation right now.” Franky’s smile finds its way into my memory again. “I loved my brother dearly, and I avenged him. Charles or whoever else upstairs should have known that I wouldn’t let something like that go. I did what I did, and I do not regret it in the slightest.”

My gaze steels itself upon the human seated across from me. “That’s who I am, Samuel. You might believe me to be a monster or a remorseless killer, but the truth is I am a fiercely loyal and honorable man. I will protect what is dear to me with every fiber of my being. My wife, my children, my family and my friends. They mean more to me than my own life.” I straighten my back. “If you’ll help me with this, if you’ll help me get to the bottom of whatever Charles has been scheming and help figure out a way for us to beat him at his own game, I will call you a friend.”

Samuel holds my gaze with a surprising amount of strength. Where before I witnessed a quivering, helpless lump of skin, I now see someone with acuity and resolve. After a moment, his eyes lower again and his brow furrows. I give him some time to think it over, though I do hope he makes a decision soo—

“I’ll do it.”

My eyes widen before I offer a respectful nod. “Thank you, Samuel. You’ve made the right choice.”

He scratches the back of his neck. “Erm… What, exactly, did you have in mind for this ‘dishonest’ thing?”

In response, I rise from my seat and step over to the corner of the room, bending down until my knees touch my chest. A quick examination answers my question before I ask it. Herdster labor at its finest, the maintenance fellas who last worked on this ventilation system didn’t even bother screwing the panel back on, instead just pushing it into place. I slide a claw between wall and metal, and with a small shunk the cover slides free.

I straighten up and turn back to Samuel who watches me with curiosity. “Charles’s office is right on the other side of this wall. He always locks his door and he has the only key. There aren’t any windows, so this is the only other way in.” I gesture at my body. “For… obvious reasons, I can’t fit through this space, but I’m pretty confident that you can.”

He tips his cap back a little with a quiet whistle. “Good thing I ain’t claustrophobic, I guess.”

I smile. “It’s not a lot of wall, anyway. Your head will probably be poking out the other side before your feet disappear here.” I lean down again, peering into the shaft. “I’m guessing the vent cover on the other side will be loose, just like this one. But you’ll need to make it quick, I don’t know how much time we have left.”

“What do you want me to do when I’m over there? Am I swiping something?”

I shake my head. “He’ll notice if anything goes missing. Take those forms and that pen with you, and see what you can find near his desk. He has a small leather notebook he keeps in the top drawer of his filing cabinet. It comes out whenever he has an important phone call to make or note to take, and I’ve never seen the inside of it. I’m willing to bet you could find some info in there.”

“And what, exactly—”

“Anything you can. Mention of me, mention of you or Marty, anything regarding Murphy’s pool hall…”

He blinks in surprise. “Wait, you think Charles had something to do with that fight?”

An impatient huff escapes me. “I don’t know. I have a suspicion, but that’s why I’m asking you to go, and we’re running out of time, so go.”

“O-okay!” The human snatches up the blank forms and the pen before approaching the vent. After glancing at me one more time, he drops to his stomach and starts shimmying through the tight space. As I expected, he’s able to squeeze in, though his cap falls off his head before he begins the journey. A flick his wrist sends the cap through the air and onto the table before he wiggles into the vent. About four and a half feet in, I hear his hands push the other vent cover, the scraping metal echoing around me. A moment later, his feet vanish.

I bend down to speak through the passage. “Alright. Find whatever you can and jot it down. I’ll be right outside keeping watch, but I’ll keep my tail through the door. If you hear my spikes knocking, get out of there.” I demonstrate the audio cue by bringing the tip of my tail beside me and tapping it against the wall. “And don’t forget to put that vent cover back on when you’re done! Charles isn’t stupid, he’ll notice if that thing is out of place.”

“Got it!” I hear the faint sound of Samuel shuffling around in the office, the metallic squeal of a filing cabinet drawer being pulled open giving a clue as to his first stop.

This might just work. I don’t know for certain that he’ll find anything, but at the very least he’s on my side.

I keep a hand on the doorknob behind me, remaining still and straining my ears. It’s after normal business hours, so most folks have gone home. Though I hear the odd voice or two coming from somewhere upstairs, it’s pretty quiet. My plan is to pretend I’m mid-exit of the conference room should anyone wander past, and to rap my tail spikes against the wall on its way through the door if it’s an emergency. Admittedly, I feel a little stupid holding a pose like this, but it’s the safest way to give Sam the time he needs if Marty turns the corner all of a sudden.

I gotta hand it to the human, he’s really surpassing my expectations. Of course, I didn’t tell him that the fella who killed my brother was a skinnie. I always had an inherent and well-placed distrust of their kind ever since I was a kid. My folks brought me up that way, taught me to stick to my lane and be cautious of those tricky skinbags. Sure, society was moving in a direction of “equality” and “rights”, but as far as I was concerned they’d always be a rung lower on the totem pole. It wasn’t until I started working for the Herdsters that I softened, even beginning to trust the few humans we had in our employ.

Even Demetri. That sallow-eyed, heartless f*cker. Even he got me to warm up to him before he stabbed me in the back by killing Franky. “Just following orders,” my ass. I hope the excuse is doing him good in hell.

After I blew his brains all over the concrete, I promised myself I’d never trust another human, not for as long as I live. And I intend to keep that promise. Sam seems alright, for a skinnie, but I don’t care how many times he stabs a pissed off baryonyx in the leg with a broken pool cue, I’ll never trust the—

Voices. Two voices, approaching from the direction of the parking garage. One of them is Marty’s, and the other…

Oh, f*ck.

I bang my spikes into the wall several times, praying to God that Samuel doesn’t have wax in his ears. As their shadows bend around the corner, I hastily pull my tail out of the doorway and begin the pantomime of having just exited the conference room, clicking the latch shut as two figures come into view.

“Evenin’, Charles. Figured you’d be over at Santiago’s by now.”

The gray triceratops comes to a halt ten feet away, offering me a disingenuous-feeling grin. “Good evening, Pierce. I was, but I realized I forgot something in my office. I needed to have a meeting tonight but… well, my mind’s just all over the place.” He taps the side of his head in a gesture of forgetfulness. I don’t buy it for a second. He doesn’t forget anything.

He holds the bundle of envelopes containing today’s dues in his hand. I guess he bumped into Marty in the parking garage and Marty handed over the money here instead of Santiago’s like we usually would. The convenient timing couldn’t be more inconvenient for me. The diplodocus steps forward, offering me a bottled soda and a small stack of betting slips. “Got what ya asked for. Is Sam’s paperwork squared away?”

Charles’s eyebrow lifts. “Paperwork?”

I stuff the slips into my pocket and grasp the soda, my fingers tightening on it nearly to the point of shattering the glass. “Yeah, I was told there was a form he forgot to fill out when he got hired, so we stopped by after our shift so he could get it squared away. He’s in the spare conference room doin’ it now.”

Purple orbs examine me for an uncomfortable moment. I’m an honorable man but I’m not above lying, and I’m pretty f*ckin’ good at it. Charles might be a smart guy, but he ain’t cracking my shell. Finally, he gives a shallow shrug. “Well, thank you for getting it sorted out.” He steps toward his office, key in hand. “If you—”

“Did you want a soda, Charles? I’m not really in the mood for this one.” In my desperation, I fire out the quickest thing I can to distract him, something, anything to give Sam another few seconds.

He pauses, glancing back at Marty. “No, thank you. Martin already offered me his, and I’m also… not in the mood.”

His key slides into the lock. I grit my teeth, fearing the inevitable. Sam’s still gonna be in that office, practically with his dick in his hand, and we’re both gonna be f*cked—

Just as Charles turns the knob, the door behind me swings open. Sam steps into the hall, two sheets of paper and a pen gripped in his hands. He extends them in my direction. “H-here you go, Pierce. All done.”

I do everything in my power to keep the vein in my neck from pulsing as I accept the forms. “Thanks, Sam. I’ll get ‘em up to accounting right away.” The human smiles at me nervously, scratching the back of his neck. I pray that it’s interpreted as his usual nervous behavior. Marty, for his part, wears a distracted, far-off smile as he sips his chilled, fizzy beverage.

Charles simply stares at us. With his form half-inserted into his office, his interrogating eyes move from me to Sam, trying to piece things together.

We have to leave, now. I just pray that Sam didn’t make a mess and got that vent cover put back in place like he was supposed to. I casually turn to Marty. “Let’s get going, bud. We’ll swing upstairs and—”

Charles’s icy words cut me off. He speaks while staring at the human beside me, a malevolent grin tugging at the sides of his lips.

”Samuel. Can I speak to you in my office, please?”

Kind of Blue - StarmanSuper (2024)

Chapter 1: Samuel

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: Aubrey

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: Pierce

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: Samuel

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: Aubrey

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: Pierce

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: Samuel

Chapter Text

Chapter 8: Aubrey

Chapter Text

Chapter 9: Pierce

Chapter Text

Chapter 10: Samuel

Chapter Text

Chapter 11: Aubrey

Chapter Text

Chapter 12: Pierce

Chapter Text

FAQs

How to defeat Starman Super? ›

How do you beat Starman Jr? ›

References

Stats
Appearance in EarthBound
HP 1400	PP 418	Guts 43
PSI strengths/weaknesses
Fire 75%	Freeze 50%	Hypnosis 10%