[PRE-NOTES] Re-written to better reflect how much this story has grown since its inception. Now with a cover image! I hope ya'll like it. [/PRE-NOTES] Another shitty night. Another shitty gig. Fang briefly wonders what day it is, but she puts the question out of her mind as she finishes the last notes of yet another tired old song. She doesn’t even bother looking up anymore. She knows that there are no crowds cheering her on or even giving her the time of day. At most, someone will give her a passing glance before returning to whatever it was they were doing. At worst, they’ll just ignore her like they have for the last three years. The monochromatic ptero briefly wonders what it’s like to have aspirations in life; to have actual hopes or dreams to chase down and achieve… Fang shuts her eyes and bitterly chides herself. Dreams are only for those that can afford to chase them, not for someone whose only thing left in life is a job. The ptero can’t help but grip the end of her bass as she thinks about her situation. ‘Play my shitty gig, get my shitty pay, give most of my shitty pay to the collectors, use what remains of that shitty pay on food, rent, and whatever shitty comforts I can get my hands on… and then do it all over again the next day, and the next, and the next until I die. Dreams are only for those that can afford to chase them, not for someone whose only thing left in life is a job...’ God, she hates her life so much, but it’s not like she has a choice in the matter. Whatever ‘bright’ future she may have once had, she tossed that away the day she stormed out of her friends and family’s lives. She even went out of her way to buy a ‘fresh start,’ something that she now admittedly regrets. The last four years of her life had been nothing short of hell because of that hasty, stupid decision. It was probably the second biggest mistake of her life, the first being… ‘No,’ Fang thinks as she represses the memory of a certain bald human back into the recesses of her mind. ‘That bastard’s not worth remembering anymore…’ “Hey, Gilda! You awake?” a purple-toned triceratops asks as she turns to face her bandmate. “You’ve been spacing out since we finished that last song!” Fang snaps out of her rut and turns to look her bandmate in the eye. For just a second, the ptero swears that she’s looking into the face of her old friend, another triceratops named Trish. The sense of familiarity has to do mostly with the almost identical facial structure, short curly tuft of hair, and purple eyes. Of course, that feeling of familiarity soon passes when her bandmate’s other differences become apparent. For one thing, Fang’s bandmate is a lighter shade of purple than Trish was, though it was just barely noticeable. She is also somehow shorter than Trish ever was, standing almost a head and a half shorter than the ptero. Finally, unlike Trish’s trademark yellow hoodie, black jogging pants, and red boxing boots, her bandmate instead sports a fairly typical white tank top, a knee-long black skirt, and a pair of fairly beat-up converse shoes. With an exasperated sigh, Fang reaches for an almost empty bottle of water and takes a sip. The moment she’s done, she fixes her bandmate with a glossy, tired glare. “We’ve been playing this shitty gig for almost four hours now, Tana. ‘Course I’m going to space out.” The purple triceratops rolls her eyes and crosses her arms. “Weren’t you the one who was all excited about playing this gig?” Fang fixes her bandmate with another tired glossy glare. Tana only shakes her head and turns to face the third member of the band, a reasonably bulky shark in a blue muscle shirt and white shorts sitting behind a set of drums. “What about you, Chadley? You also feeling spaced out tonight?” The shark gives his bandmate a wide toothy grin as he plays a quick beat on his drums. “Getting a bit tired, but my head’s still in the game!” Tana nods and turns back to Fang. “Well, there you go, Gilda. Looks like you’re the only one whose head isn’t in the game.” Fang rolls her eyes and steps forward. “Let’s just end our set and go home,” she says in a bitter tone. “What song you wanna close the night on?” Tana asks as she checks her guitar’s strings for the correct tension. Fang ponders on just what song to end the night with. She could pick any one piece that she wanted. Not that it matters much to her in the end. People will ignore it as usual, so it was almost a pointless decision. Still, something in her heart pushes her to play a specific song, one that she had written not that long ago during a particularly harrowing and lonely night. One that she knew her bandmates detested for its downright bleak lyrics… “Let’s end it with ‘Not Here,’” Fang says with a weary grin on her lips. Tana lets out a groan and shakes her head. “Really?” she asks, her brow furrowed in response. “That song’s SO nihilistic!” “Gotta agree with Tana on this one,” Chadley chimes in, all the while running a hand through his short black hair. “Like, I know you wrote it and stuff, but does it have to be so bleak?” “Not like anyone’s even listening,” Fang points to the virtually deserted pizzeria. “Besides,” the ptero continues, an uncharacteristic fire burning in her eyes. “I want to feel something other than apathy tonight.” Tana shakes her head and readies her guitar. “Okay, fine. But for the next gig, I’m choosing what our last song is. Got it?” Fang doesn’t even bother acknowledging her bandmate as she begins strumming her bass. Seconds later, she’s joined by Tana and Chadley, the duo jumping in to fill a melancholic, almost depressing tune whose main instrumental sound comes from Fang’s bass. The intro melody lasts about ten seconds before Fang steps forward and takes her place in front of the microphone. With a deep breath, she closes her eyes and recites the song’s lyrics. Lyrics that arise from the very depths of her soul: I am a question to the world, Not an answer to be heard Or a moment that's held in your arms. And what do you think you'd ever say? I won't listen anyway… You don't know me, And I’ll never be what you want me to be. The song picks up in tempo, though the melody remains as bleak as ever. And what do you think you'd understand? I’m neither boy or a woman You can take me and toss me away And how can you learn what's never shown? Yeah, you stand here on your own. They don't know me 'cause I'm not here. Chadley beats on his drums as Tana begins strumming her guitar energetically. It almost starts to overpower Fang’s bass. Ultimately, though, the depressing nature of the ptero’s bass strumming wins out in the end, resulting in a tone that’s as unmelodious as it is downright depressing. And I want a moment to be real, Wanna touch things I don't feel, Wanna hold on and feel I belong. And how can the world want me to change? They’re the ones that stay the same. They don’t know me, 'Cause I’m not here. The song again slows as Fang’s bass takes point once again, much to Tana’s visible chagrin. And you see the things they never see All you wanted, I can’t be Now you know me, are you afraid? And I wanna tell you who I am Can you help me be someone? They have broken me Because I don’t know who I am As the second chorus kicks in, Tana steps forward again, once again trying to take point for herself. However, Fang’s bass remains overpowering, which only adds more to the unmelodious nature of the song. And I want a moment to be real, Wanna touch things I don't feel, Wanna hold on and feel I belong. And how can the world want me to change? They’re the ones that stay the same. They can’t see me, Because I’m not here They can tell me who to be ‘Cause I’m exactly what they see Yeah, the world is still sleepin’, While I keep on dreamin’ And their words are just whispers And lies that are all too real! The final chorus kicks off. Tana doesn’t even bother overpowering or trying to show off anymore. Much like with Fang, she’s come to accept that the song’s main driving tune is a mournful disharmony that speaks of her bandmate’s broken soul... And I want a moment to be real, Wanna touch things I don't feel, Wanna hold on and feel I belong. And how can they say I never change? They’re the ones that stay the same. I’m still no one, ‘Cause I’m not here. I’m not the one I’m not here I’m not here I’m not here... When the final note plays, the venue somehow feels quieter than before. No one is clapping, and what few eyes and ears are present seem to be full of confusion, even displeasure. At least two of the patrons get up and walk out of the pizzeria in visible disgust, and the last remaining patron, a human wearing a black turtleneck and beanie, looks on with what almost could pass off for pity. Tana removes the guitar strap from her neck and turns to look back at Fang. “Gilda…” she starts, her voice full of vitriol and face just barely holding back rage. “We’re NEVER playing that song again!” Chadley, despite his usual sunny demeanor, stands up from his drum set and walks up to Fang, putting a hand on her shoulder. He shakes his head, wordless agreeing with Tana before walking off the small stage. The purple triceratops grabs her guitar case and stuffs her instrument in without a word, following after him. Unlike Chadley however, she stops and turns to face her bandmate with a sour expression on her face. “Despite that last song being… as soul-crushing as ever… good show... I guess.” Fang lets out a snort through her nose. She hates it when Tana gets all patronizing. ‘Not like she cares. She doesn’t even do this for a living…’ she bitterly thinks as she looks at the barely fifteen-year-old high schooler. She joined her band less out of a desire to and more because it was a convenient mutual arrangement for both of them. Still, Tana and Chadley are about the only people Fang interacts with on the regular. They’re the closest things she had to friends nowadays, even though she knows almost nothing about their lives besides that they choose to torture themselves with her presence. ‘Not that I even deserve friends in the first place…’ she somberly tells herself before letting out a sigh. “Hey, Gilda. when are you going to play the guitar instead of bass?” Tana suddenly asks Fang, forcing her away from her current train of thoughts. Fang thinks back to when she had last picked up a guitar and played it more than decently. Just that had catapulted her playing from ‘dreadful’ to ‘almost decent.’ Yet as the warm memory of playing the instrument and letting herself soar with the music filled her soul, it also brought with it memories of the person who had convinced her to switch over to a guitar… Instantly Fang shook her head and shot a glare at her bandmate. “I’ll play whatever the hell I want, got it?” Tana sighs and shrugs before turning around, walking away without so much as another word. Fang notices how Tana picks up her pace to meet up with Chadley, who was waiting for her by the pizzeria entrance. Soon as the two lock eyes, they begin to chat among themselves like they were high-school buddies. Given their respective age ranges, fifteen for Tana and seventeen for Chadley, they probably were. At first, Fang let out a low hiss, almost like a vampire seeing the crucifix of Raptor Jesus. The hiss then turns into a deep and gloomy sigh. The ptero spares one more look at her bandmates, a pang of regret erupting in the spot where her heart once lay. She should be nicer to the only people on this planet who still put up with her bullshit. Yet, she can’t bring herself to feel anything other than bitterness. That’s how it’s been for four years, and that’s how it feels like it will be for the rest of her life. ‘What a pathetic existence,’ Fang thinks as she greedily gulps down the last of her water, not even caring that the liquid smears her black lipstick. She thinks back to how she had once told someone dear to her that people were like weeds, only existing to get stepped on while she moved ahead. Despite their attempts at being cordial, her bandmates are no different. She only needs to reciprocate their comradeship enough to keep up a working relationship. They are her meal ticket, and the last thing she wants is to alienate yet more people in her life. ‘Even if that's my best fucking quality,’ the ptero somberly thought. With a sneer of disgust, Fang kicks the amp next to her. There’s no point sparing another thought on self-pity. Pity is not going to clear up her debt. Pity is not going to give her enough to live on beyond a shitty one-room apartment that doesn't even have air conditioning. Pity isn’t going to magically undo all of her stupid life’s mistakes, and pity certainly won’t help her find more gigs. Instead of wasting precious energy on idle and worthless thoughts, she packs away the last of her equipment. As she does, she notices someone standing near the stage in the dimly lit pizzeria, staring at her like she is a sight for sore eyes. A human of all things. The same human that had stared intently at her like she was the most beautiful of muses. Fang scoffs at the notion of anyone—let alone a human—finding her attractive. Maybe the ape is high or drunk off his ass. Maybe he has a fetish for dinos. Maybe the guy is schizo and off his rocker. Whatever the case, he's just another weirdo out to make her night that extra bit more miserable. As if shit couldn't be more miserable already. Fang ignores the human to the best of her abilities while she finishes locking up her bass in its case. Unlike everything else she owns, her bass is the one thing she took care of like an offspring. More than just a keepsake from a better time, it’s her only worldly possession that held real value. Sure, there are also negative memories tied to it, but they serve as reminders of what not to do in the future. A glance at the nicks and scratches on the instrument make the ptero realize the oppressive flow of time. To think that it has been almost four years since she had last spoken to her family. Four years since she had last seen hide or hair of her former friends. Friends she had so callously tossed away in a fit of rage and paranoia, all thanks to a certain person she had once believed loved her for who she was, only to be proven dead wrong when he revealed that it was all the plan of some machiavellian bitch named Naomi. As she thinks of that bitch Naomi, she can’t help but wonder what any of her old friends are doing now. ‘Certainly something a hell of a lot better than what I’m doing,’ Fang thinks with the kind of exhaustion not even a hundred years of sleep could ever hope to fix. Yet as she thinks back on Trish, Reed, Rosa, and Stella, she feels unworthy of holding them in her memory. How could she, when she had so readily cut them off from her life in the first place? There it is again, that pang in Fang's chest. That damnable pang that shouldn't exist—couldn't exist—in her hollowed state. Yet there it is, nagging at her very soul. It screams and kicks like a child throwing the world's worst tantrum. Gritting her teeth and taking a deep breath, Fang gathers the last of her pitiful belongings. As she does, she forces her body and mind to go numb. What she wouldn't give right now for a smoke of whatever Reed used to fill his lungs with back in High School. She looks in the direction of the pizzeria’s pitifully stocked bar, ‘At least drinks are on the house tonight…’ Part of Fang’s pay for playing at Pizza Time is access to alcohol, something her younger bandmates couldn’t enjoy yet. Legally anyway. She knew the two drank on the side. She isn't going to stop them, though. It isn’t like she’s their guardian. ‘Whatever the fuck Tana and Chadley do on their time’s their business, not mine,’ Fang thinks as she settles on drinking the stiffest, most arduous liquor she can get her hands on tonight. She deserves a cold one after playing for two hours. A small part of Fang, probably all that remains of her former self, reminds her how booze had set her down the path she now walked. The ptero quickly shuts that voice up. It’s too late to be sorry about what she did to wind up in her situation. Four years too late to change anything… A voice suddenly pulls Fang from her thoughts. The voice belongs to the human who, up to that point, has been ogling her like he’s a ravenous horndog. Fang turns to face him, realizing that he’s the only person left in the entire restaurant. Even the waiters and the bartender appear to have cleared up. Is it really that late at night, or had they fled after that last song? Fed up with the usual bullshit she puts up with daily, Fang let out a low, almost feral growl in response to the human’s words. “Fuck off!” she hisses dryly, without so much as sparing a single glance at the human's eyes. She doesn’t even wait for a reply from the evolved ape as she grabs her belongings and makes her way off the stage. “L-Lucy…?” the human calls out just loud enough for Fang's ears to catch. Hearing that old, almost forgotten name, Fang feels a bright hot rage bubble in her. It threatens to consume her as she whips around with eyes like daggers at the heckling human. ‘How did he know my old name?’ She asks herself as she seizes the human before her with a vicious glare. ‘Who the fuck is he?’ As if to answer Fang’s silent question, the human steps forward, out of the dim light of the Pizzeria and into the brighter lights of the stage. The human’s plain black turtleneck and navy blue pants almost make him look like a thug, yet at the same time, he doesn’t look like a hobo or junkie. For one thing, she can see some well-defined musculature even with the slightly loose clothing he’s wearing. He also carries himself with a presence that is pretty hard to pin down properly. The only thing the jaded ptero can tell for sure is that he has just about zero fucks left to give. What was more, unlike other humans, the one now staring her in the eye had little in the way of remarkable facial features. If she were looking at him from a distance, she could even swear he has no discernable face to speak of. It hits Fang like a freight train going at a hundred miles an hour. She drops her bass case and grimaces, the rage bubbling through her veins, making her whole body feel at least ten degrees hotter. But just as quickly as the anger rises, it not only cools but practically freezes over. Something about the man before her feels familiar, like some long-forgotten memory calling out to her… one she barely wanted to acknowledge despite it screaming loudly and desperately at her. Whatever it is that wants to claw its way back to the forefront of her mind is having a hard time getting past the usual maelstrom of recollections and regrets. Another glare at the human has something in her brain click, and she suddenly remembers why the face brought out so much anguish and confusion in her. Those barely visible eyes of his, that blank yet unique expression—one she had fought so hard for four years to kill all recollections of to no real avail… The fire inside fang's soul turns to acid. ‘You... YOU!’ Fang venomously thinks. As more and more memories she had believed long-buried rise up to the surface, she grits her teeth and clenches her hands into fists. The force on her jaw is so tight that it makes her teeth ache and her gums quake. A torrent of emotions begin raging within the ptero’s soul—none good, and none that she knows how to handle without violence. “What do YOU want!?” the dino asks so chillingly that her words could freeze the very sun. The human wordlessly steps closer to Fang. As he does, the ptero notes how he is now very clearly not the human she remembers from four years ago, yet still, the same man that she had once believed had loved her for who she was… “Anon,” Fang seethes with every bit of hatred that she can put into her voice. Fang’s already clenched hands tighten further. Her claws dig into the flesh of her palms, drawing blood as her knuckles turn white. Whatever pain she might feel is utterly overwritten by the inferno raging uncontrollably in her soul. At that moment, she wants nothing more than to rip Anon's chest open with her bare hands, showing him his still beating black heart as the life slowly leaves his eyes. The ptero takes one step towards the human. Without wasting a single second, she raises an arm and snaps her shoulder back. With all the strength she can muster, she throws a punch directed right at Anon’s face. A blow the human does nothing to avoid, parry, or even counter. As the sound of a scaled fist meeting soft human flesh echoes through the abandoned restaurant, Fang can’t help but feel some level of catharsis. It’s several years too late and far too little to make any real difference, but as she feels her first bury itself into Anon's cheek, she feels a certain level of rapture. Fang can’t help but smile ever so faintly... To Fang's surprise, Anon takes her punch without so much as flinching. At first, the ptero wonders if she’s that weak, but as Anon's cheek turns a dark shade of red and rises a few millimeters in inflammation, her doubts evaporate. If anything, it’s Anon who has gotten physically more robust. Anon turns his head to once again gaze right into Fang’s eyes. Fang puts away her surprise at Anon's resistance—or numbness—to once again glare daggers at him. However, as Fang's eyes meet Anon’s, she feels overwhelmed by the deep sorrow she finds in them. The ptero’s previous hostility deflates as the sadness in Anon’s eyes overwhelms her. Little by little, the fire and acid in her soul vanishes as a realization hits; that the human now staring deep into her soul is just as damaged—if not more so—than she is. The sorrow she can see in his gaze is but a fraction of the emotion she could feel in his soul. There is so much more just hidden away under the surface... “Lucy…” Anon whispers as he takes another step forward towards the girl he had once loved, yet the one girl he had ruined everything with because of his selfishness and apathy. “What happened to you?” Despite wanting nothing more than to kick Anon in the testicles and run away to hide from the feelings in her heart, Fang can only shake her head in denial. Goosebumps course through her body as for just one moment, she lets herself remember what Anon had been to her... and what she had been to him. How they had both ended it so unceremoniously, almost as if all those hours spent together, all those laughs shared, all that happiness that bounced between the two of them had meant nothing. Fang steps even closer to Anon without another word and wraps her arms around the human’s chest. Anon returned the embrace, doing his best to cradle the woman he had loved and so carelessly hurt four years ago. As the night outside grew colder, Anon and Fang—broken and beaten by a cruel and uncaring world—found a small semblance of comfort in each other's embrace. It wasn't enough to heal the wounds or to undo all the mistakes the two had committed in their lives up to that point, but for just one second, it didn't matter... Just for one second, it was a good place for the two of them to start again… [The cover image is attached here.] -Two Weeks Earlier- “People never change...” Those are the words Anon repeats to himself as he walks down the streets of Skin Row. The box of pizza in his hand trembles as his mind and his soul duel over what emotion he should be feeling at that moment. While brain, heart, and soul duel over what the human should be feeling, another part of Anon’s mind races as a hundred different thoughts acost him, making his journey down to the smoke shop all the more arduous. As he nears the old and worn-down shop, all his thoughts begin merging into a single focus. Instead of easing his mental anguish, the cacophony of emotions and memories only serves to give him a splitting headache. Anon turns away from the shop and finds the nearest bench to sit on. As he lets his body plop down on the hard concrete seat, he focuses his mind on a single stream of consciousness, one that hopefully wouldn’t leave him feeling like a shoe inside a tumbling drying machine. It works for the most part, save for one rogue idea that refuses to go back into the deepest recesses of his mind no matter how hard he tries to push it down. Anon puts a hand on his face and lets out a groan of physical and emotional pain. “Why of all people on this fucking planet did I have to run into her again?” Anon is dragged back unwillingly to just a few minutes earlier… *** Anon set eyes on the slightly worn-out sign in the window. “Pizza Time,” the human says out loud, not sure what to make of the name. From the looks of the eatery, it appears to be one of those family entertainment restaurants along the lines of Freedy Fazzbear’s Pizza or Bon’s Burgers he had always wanted to go to when he was younger. He never got the chance, because his parents either didn’t have the time, the money, or both. Just from the worn sun-bleached lettering and the unkempt, barely cleaned glass, it’s clear the restaurant has seen better days. The fact that it’s smack-dab in the middle of Skin Row probably doesn’t help any. The neighborhood had perhaps been a far better place to live decades ago when the restaurant was first built before the streets had been overrun by the gangs and all the impoverished people. Anon didn’t think much of the restaurant before his eyes. In truth, he only wants some cigarettes. Preferably the same brand his old high school buddy Reed used to inhale like a chimney all the times they had hung out for guy’s nights. Yet as he takes no more than three steps forward his stomach growls, followed by an unignorable pang of hunger racking at his stomach. With a sigh of defeat, Anon retraced his steps and stepped into the eatery, a tiny bell chiming overhead. Pizza isn’t precisely within his budget, but it isn’t like he plans to be spending any more of his pension later this week anyway. He might as well live a little while he has some cash to burn. The human looks around the restaurant’s interior. Sure enough, it’s far more spacious inside than the outside had led him to believe. Aside from at least three dozen old round tables dotted across the main dining area, there are a few booths meant for more private gatherings, and even a pair of large rectangular tables meant for catering events, such as birthday parties. The walls and ceilings are painted a faded blue-ish purple, and the floor is lined with hundreds of black ceramic tiles that look as worn and scratched as it’s expected of such an old restaurant. As far as the restaurant’s lighting went, several hundred round wire lanterns hang overhead, each holding an orange LED bulb that shines just brightly enough to keep the restaurant from becoming a tripping hazard. The overall color scheme gives the pizzeria a dark quality that even the lighting couldn’t counteract. It reminds the young sailor about his time aboard the CVN-295 Judgment, the aircraft carrier he was assigned to not long after joining the navy. The only other thing worth noting is the sound of the pizzeria’s arcade, which as expected, blasts out a loud racket of varying sounds that honestly make Anon wonder how anyone can listen to such a din without going mad within only a few minutes. Aside from another human munching on a burger at a table and a couple of teen dinos kissing in one of the booths, the restaurant is pretty devoid of customers. Even the small bar which caters to parents while their children waste hard-earned money on prize tickets and short-lasting merriment lies utterly empty, the bartender sitting down to one side and reading a book while looking bored out of her mind. At first, Anon has the urge to ask the dino tending the bar for a drink, but after considering his monetary situation and the early hours, he settles on only getting food. Scanning for a secluded table, Anon makes his way somewhere he concludes is just far enough away from ‘the crowd’ while still being visible to the waiters. The last thing he wants that day is to interact with anyone he doesn’t need to. He finds a table with a broken chair and a lopsided base. Not one minute passes before a waitress comes around to take his order. Flipping through the menu, Anon settles on getting a to-go order of a classic medium pizza with cheese and ham. He considers being bold and adding something extra like pineapples for a second, but he ultimately decided against it. Not that he hates pineapples on pizza—far from it, he loves them unconditionally—it was just two dollars extra for the added topping, which meant two dollars less for his cigarette budget, and that would not fly. As Anon hands the menu back to the waitress and refuses a drink of any kind, something other than the racket of the arcade machines and gotcha contraptions catches his attention. It’s music. And not just any type of music, but live music… live music that sounds so very familiar to him... The human follows the tunes with his ears, the sounds eventually leading his eyes to a tiny stage tucked near the restaurant’s back. It’s just barely in sight of the patrons, almost as if the point is for a few looks to fall on it as possible. There, on top of a platform just large enough for five people, three musicians stand playing in the beam of a single headlight. Usually Anon wouldn’t care about some nobody band playing such a tiny gig, but his attention falls on the trio of performers for reasons beyond his current comprehension. In particular their ‘lead,’ a monochromatic ptero who still has her back turned away from the ‘crowd,’ even though said crowd, consists of four people at most, none of which are even paying any attention to the music. Glancing behind the monochromatic dino, Anon’s eyes then fall on the band’s drummer, who much to his shock isn’t even a dinosaur, but a land shark instead. A megalodon, if he wanted to be more accurate. He was dressed like a stereotypical surfer, with a blue muscle shirt and a white pair of shorts, some long and slick black hair, and the kind of muscles you only get from daily trips to the public weightlifting areas of the beachside. The ‘dude’ seems to be into playing his drums; his eyes shut as he let the music’s rhythm serve as his guide. In a way, it reminds Anon of his old buddy Reed, who also had the same habit. Whether or not the shark was also a heavy drug user—or a drug user at all—is still up for debate. Standing almost directly in front of the land shark is a small light purple-tone triceratops playing a very competent guitar solo. From her strumming speed and penchant for showy movement, she clearly is the band’s lead guitarist. Her outfit is perhaps the most ‘basic’ out of her comrades, as she sported a plain white tank top and a black skirt. In fact, she looked squeaky clean by comparison and is far younger in appearance than either the ptero or land shark, almost like she’s still attending middle school. Her size and general body shape remind Anon of another triceratops he used to know by the name of Trish. Unlike his memories of Reed, which are on the more pleasant side, his recollections of Trish only brought about discomfort. As he studies the triceratops girl more closely, he finds other comparisons to Trish, like short curly hair and an abnormally ample bosom-to-body ratio. If he didn’t know any better, he would think he’s witnessing a younger version of that diminutive terror play before his eyes. Anon scoffs at the sour reminder of former friend turned enemy. He still hasn’t forgiven that purple bundle of joy for doxing him, which ensured that his last months of high school were as socially agonizing as possible. He half wonders what the tiny terror is up to these days, but he drops the question just as quickly as it had popped into his head. It doesn’t matter. It’s been about four years, so she has either gone to college or found herself some sucker to settle down with and terrorize. Anon’s eyes fall on the last member of the band, the ptero girl with her back turned to the world. Her coloration—or rather, her lack of it—reminds him of someone he used to know, but with her not bothering to face the world, he can’t tell who. Not that he cares anyway. Her bass strumming is pretty harsh and discordant, even if technically melodic and well constructed. Without seeing the dino’s face, he would never know more of the ptero girl apart from her backside. In that regard though, she at least has it going on. Anon tears his eyes away from the pitiful band and brings out his phone. He turns on the device and scrolls through a few gun nut forums. For a second he gets the urge to do a bit of shitposting, for old time’s sake. Ultimately he decides against it. Once again, he can’t bring himself to care enough to get mad at some random person over the internet. As Anon considers putting on some earphones he had brought with him from home, the band’s bassist begins to sing. Her voice is dulcet for being in a shitty three-person band. More than the surprise of hearing a decent voice coming from what otherwise looks like a garage band, it’s the voice itself that made the human’s entire world stop at that second. No matter how hard the young sailor had tried to suppress it, no matter how many times he had forced his mind to erase the memory of it, he can never forget that voice… Anon again gazed up at the band. As he did, the bassist, at last, turns to face what few patrons are in the restaurant. As his eyes focus on the lead singer he sees her, standing there, singing a song he had thought all but repressed in the most bottomless darkest pits of his memory… “...Fang…” he found himself whispering to no one in particular. The human barely recognizes his ex. A part of him even tries to deny that the pterosaur on stage is even her. Yet the more he observes, the more his rational mind clarifies it. Yes, the woman standing on that platform singing a song that he knew by heart was in fact, Fang. ‘The years haven’t been kind to you,’ is the first thing that crosses Anon’s mind as he studies his ex’s physical appearance. A shaved head, gaudy and painful-looking tattoos down both arms, and thick black eyeliner that makes her once bright and lively citrine eyes look dull and lifeless. Black-painted lips twist into a scowl of desolation—the kind that only having one’s soul crushed beyond any hope of repair can earn—he can hardly believe that the woman before him is the same girl he had dated four years earlier. It would be easier to say that she’s some twisted doppelganger or a parody of the girl he remembers, but the more he looks, the more he realizes that his eyes aren’t playing some kind of trick on him. Anon almost doesn’t notice the waitress handing him the order he put minutes ago. After giving the waitress his money for the food, he stands and dares to walk a bit closer to the stage. As he does, a part of him hopes that Fang will look his way, that she would recognize him and realize that he was the only one that cared enough to watch and listen to her and her band playing their music. But as she scans the restaurant robotically, her eyes pass by the human, their dull gaze ignorant to the fact that someone is looking back who had once cared for her. Anon turned away from the stage with a sigh. ‘It’s actually sobering,’ he muses as he makes his way out of the restaurant. A part of him had hoped it would not be so, but the more he rationalizes it the more it makes sense to him. It was fun to pretend that it might go somewhere. That Fang would recognize him, drop her instrument, race towards his arms, and put all the pain and anguish from the last four years behind her. That they would forgive each other for all those hurtful shitty things they said to each other that horrible night and start over from square one. Anon stops in his tracks and spares one last glance back. ‘She’s right there,’ he conceives with all the bravery his foolish heart can muster. ‘I can take everything back. Everything that went to shit because of that fight. If I try talking to her, she might forgive me. Things could go back to the way they were, back before…’ Anon’s mind once again goes blank. Another memory supplants his thoughts as the voice of the woman now singing shouts those painful words: “Trish was right about you!” Anon lets out a long sigh, turns his eyes to the floor, and walks out of the restaurant altogether; his mind now set only on finding cigarettes. With every step away from the eatery, his mind further cements that he is doing the right thing. Though he tries to erase the last few minutes from his mind, he knows the memory will stay with him for the rest of his life… *** Anon lights his last cigarette, takes a long and deep drag of smoke that would even impress Reed, and stands up from the bench. The sudden intake of nicotine helps dull his headache as he forces some semblance of order on his thoughts. With a still-shaky hand, the human reaches into his pizza box and takes out a slice of the still-warm pie. As Anon takes a sizable bite of the cardboard-tasting pizza he had spent about ten dollars on, he tries to force himself to feel some semblance of joy. ‘I have not one fucking care in the world now,’ he muses, albeit half-heartedly. ‘No school to stress about, no navy to return to short of a war, and most importantly, not one person to tell me how to use my shitty pension!’ He takes another drag of his cigarette and forces a smile on his lips, the muscles on his cheek screaming in soreness from years of atrophy. He is right on the money. He has no care left in the world except himself. He’s free from all accountability. It’s reassuring, in a twisted, awful sort of way, but that was how Anon likes it. He isn’t sure if it’s because he has grown numb or if he has just given up trying to feel, but the apathetic cynicism is a welcome escape from the hell that has been his life up to this point. Or at least that’s what he tells himself… As Anon continues his way to the smoke shop, there is something that nags at his soul. A feeling that he can’t get rid of no matter how hard he tries. Before he can reach the store, the feeling evolves into a pain in his heart that makes every step absolute agony. It isn’t quite physical distress, but to him it sure as hell feels like it. The tendrils of despondency spread throughout his being, running deep into his presence, wholly metaphysical and nearly impossible to describe without some kind of degree in psychology. The human steps into the shop and focuses on his current goal. As he does, his discomfort continues to evolve. Now, even his eyes feel heavy and laden with moisture seeking an escape. As he picks up some weed-based cigarettes from the shop, his discomfort further evolves, eventually feeling like some kind of thorn got stuck to his being, one he can’t reach and pluck out. Anon storms towards the liquor aisle in a desperate bid and scans for the highest proof alcohol he can find. Only seconds later, he spots a bottle of imported vodka from one of the former Soviet block countries. The label says that it is 96% proof, which means a good night and a wild party to most. ‘This ought to get me nice and wasted,’ Anon thinks as he puts his two purchases together. Sure, the drink is far more expensive than anything he would normally get, but if he can’t force the pain in his soul down through willpower, then he’s going to drown it out with booze strong enough to be vehicle fuel. Anon pays with his government-issued debit card and leaves the store as fast as his legs can carry him. Without any other delay, he begins his trek back to Skin Row. On the way, he again passes by the same restaurant where he accidentally ran into Fang. Though he tells himself not to, some subconscious instinct forces his head to once more look towards the back of the pizzeria. Though the glass is grimy and covered in scratches and etched graffiti, he can just barely make out the still playing figure of his ex-girlfriend, still strumming away at her base and silently singing despite her eyes looking sullen and dead. Anon forces his head to turn away as he sets his pace to a brisk power walk. Though his mind is still abuzz with thoughts and ideas that he can’t—or rather doesn’t—want to act on, the thought of returning to his apartment alone with a pizza, smokes, and booze to watch a movie and enjoy his life undisturbed—with no judgment for his appearance or the place he lived in—fills him with relief… even if that relief feels hollow and artificial. ‘It’s all I’ve ever wanted,’ Anon reasons to himself, even though a part of him—he isn’t sure if it’s his mind or his soul—screams in refutation. “It’s all I’ve ever needed…” he adds, this time in a mumble only he can hear. As Pizza Time gets farther and farther away from his view, Anon raises his one free hand and half-heartedly waves at it. “Goodbye, Fang. It was nice seeing you again... I suppose… because I haven’t changed,” he says loud and clear, the words in his mouth overpowering the taste of cigarette with what feels like bile. “...Because people never change…”