A hand bigger than a baseball mitt pinned Naser's head against a wall, his face chafing against the thick fabric of a sack that enclosed him in darkness, the metallic taste of blood and fragments of teeth on his tongue. The tip of a blade pressed into his waist. “We’re going to kill you…” breathed a man's voice, very deep, like a distant rumble. Naser began to cry out for help, but the hand squeezed him into the wall with the force of a hydraulic press, his plea turning to a howl of pain. “Shut up, idiot, or I’ll crush your skull!” the man roared. He fell silent in an instant. “Becky, frisk him and check his wallet; see what rank we have here. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s a big shot with the car he’s driving.” Small, narrow hands patted down Naser and probed his pockets with a light touch, extracting his designer wallet. His high-end smartphone followed. “Give me the phone,” the man ordered. Naser heard a popping, snapping sound of glass and hard plastic being crushed. “We made an arrangement, little wing, with the Nats,” said the voice. “We call in strays, and the police don’t come poking around. Those are the rules, and you broke them. Dead cops and last radio calls are all the rage these days, it seems. We’re smarter than that; they’ll never find your body.” “Hey…” a young woman’s voice. “Flint, I don’t think this one’s a cop.” “What is he, then?” asked Flint with impatience. “I think… I think he’s a doctor,” replied Becky. “A doctor, really… as in a medical one? Well, no shit.” Naser felt the hand pushing his face to the wall begin to loosen its hold. “Looks like it could be your lucky day, little wing.” Naser cried out as he was tugged away from the wall by his dislocated wings. “We have a need for someone like you. If you’re a doctor.” A shove sent Naser lurching. He staggered, utterly disorientated and uncertain of balance. His feet caught each other, and he stumbled, teetering over. Calloused fingers thicker than sausages wrapped around his neck, holding him steady in a vice-like grip. “Gus, check the car. Be thorough this time, you lazy shit. Come along, little wing. The matter requires further investigation, as you might say.” So they went; Naser led through what he could only guess was a tangle of alleyways and corridors, descending into the deepest guts of Scale Boulevard. He tried desperately to disconnect his mind from the crushing reality of his situation, to escape the suffocating fear and agony. His thoughts were a scattered mush of primal fear and buzzing white noise, and panic fueled by claustrophobia threatened to engulf him. His breathing ragged, the confines of the sack over his head stale and hot. Naser’s brain felt too large for the skull that encased it, throbbing in rhythm with his rapidly beating heart. I don’t want to die, he thought in terror. I want to go home. He latched onto it, that singular idea. A mantra formed, and he whispered; I want to go home, I want to go home, I want to go home… An abrupt stop broke Naser’s chant. He could sense the presence of silent, unseen strangers, their rubber-soled shoes squeaking around him on polished concrete. The air felt frigid and damp on his scales, reminiscent of a cellar. A door creaked. “Stick with me, Becky,” said Flint, his voice reverberating. “You, go get Cliff and bring him over. The rest of you, fuck off.” A yank pulled Naser from his feet. He was dragged by the throat, struggling and clawing, before being slammed onto what felt like a metal chair. Searing agony radiated from his dislocated wings hanging loose from their sockets up to his aching head. The tip of his larger, unscarred wing lay slack against the cold floor, a chill radiating up its membrane and sinew. The sack was whipped from his head. He blinked, eyes adjusting to the glare in a dismal, musty-smelling room, silent except for his labored breath. It was a simple concrete box with a brown epoxy floor and flickering fluorescent lights that hung from the ceiling. A stack of metal chairs took up a corner next to rows of electrical conduit. A balding cro-magnon man towered over him. Dry, blood-shot eyes like pink ping-pong balls protruded from a flat face pocked with acne scars. He stooped over Naser, his head brushing the ceiling, sack dangling from one huge, scarred hand. Behind the giant sat a small, red-headed, buck-toothed neanderthal atop the chair stack. She wore a denim vest and a scuffed My Little Equine bag. Flint and Becky. Flint stuffed the sack into his back pocket and silently held a hand out to the neanderthal, palm up. Becky reached over her shoulder, taking Naser’s nightstick from the bag. She passed it to the cro-magnon. Engulfing the baton between two meaty paws, his bulging, unblinking eyes bore into Naser’s. Slowly, the nightstick began to bend and, with a sudden, piercing crack, snapped in half. He dropped the two pieces at Naser’s feet, where they rattled against the floor. “I have a question for you, little wing. Why is the VPD sending undercover cops to Scale Boulevard?” asked Flint, his voice flat. “I don’t know!” Naser whimpered, wincing momentarily at a pang from his swollen jaw. Chunks of tooth dribbled from his lips. “I’m just a surgeon! Please…” “I ain’t trusting some scaly cunt who comes to the neighborhood in his flashy car, swinging a cop stick around. I’m not a fucking idiot.” It was like dealing with Dad all over again, an even more violent, potentially psychotic version who clearly wanted to do actual harm and was exceptionally capable of it, a Ripley from a shadow dimension. Naser gripped the seat of the chair, his knuckles going white. “I have a surgical clinic on Tail Terrace; call them! Ask about me!” Cocking an eyebrow, Flint turned to Becky. Her shoulders lifted in a shrug, “He does have a business card in his wallet.” Flint considered it for a moment, then rejected the suggestion with the flap of a hand. “No way of knowing if the person at the end of the line is a police collaborator.” Naser felt an all-too-familiar wave of dread wash over him. “Ask me where I studied! Ask me- ask me anything!” he stammered. “Nope, I don’t think so.” Flint pushed up his sleeves and rubbed his immense hands together. “Becky, cloth.” She soaked a washcloth in bottled water and tossed it to Flint; he caught it with a wet slap. “Excuse me, I have a bit of a condition,” he said, dabbing his eyes with the sopping wet cloth. “You may have noticed.” Naser leaned forward slightly, trying to focus through the haze in his mind as he scrutinized the man's face. Flint did not, in fact, have any eyelids to speak of. “It's a parting gift from an old friend years ago. A favor, a… reminder.” He slung the towel over his shoulder and wiped his hand across his shirt. “These days, I’m not so trusting.” He kneeled and unsheathed a blade from his boot. It looked ridiculous in his hand, like a tiny paring knife. “I came to pick up clothes for a friend from his apartment,” Naser blurted, “I couldn’t find any clothes in town, so I came here to get them; I would never, ever come here if it wasn’t to get my friend's clothes I swear! Ple-e-ease,” he sobbed, “don’t kill me! I’m not lying!” “Didn’t see you carrying any clothes coming out of that apartment building.” Flint bent forward and took Naser by the crest, his hand enveloping it. He waved the knife in Naser's face. “I believe there’s an eternal cycle of karmic justice, bouncing back and forth- forever. You reap what you sow, give and take, so it goes. On and on for all eternity. Simple. Easy to understand. Not only on a personal level, we’re talking on a holistic scale here. The big picture. Do you understand?” “No…” squeaked Naser, “I don’t understand what you’re talking about-” Letting go of Naser’s crest, Flint plucked at one of Naser’s eyelids with surprising dexterity, pinching it between thumb and forefinger, pulling at it. Naser gasped, feebly swatting at Flint’s knotted arm. "There's a technique to cutting off eyelids,” said Flint, smiling and conversational, as if talking over lunch. "You see, the trick is to cut high on the socket, getting the whole thing, so there’s nothing left to moisten the eye. A couple’ah peeled grapes, drying up under the sun. Here, let me show you…” His grin broadened in perverse glee. In his peripheral vision, Naser could see the knife drawing nearer. He clamped his teeth, widening the cracks in his already fractured molars, anticipating the sensation of cold steel slicing through skin. Flint let go of Naser’s eyelid and slid the knife back into his boot. “I’m fucking with ya, doc!” he chuckled, “A little joke between friends. An entertaining way to pass the time until your patient arrives.” He patted his naked eyes with the edge of the wet cloth. Naser stared at Flint, stunned. His clouded mind reeled with mingled confusion and uncertain relief, adjusting to a new situation where he wasn’t about to be mutilated. At least not yet. "A… patient?” he murmured. “Public healthcare ain’t how it used to be, little lizard; we’re riding on the wings of karma. The kid should be here any second now. Right, Becky?” “Right.” “I’m sure you will find this an ample opportunity to wow us with your medical prowess.” Flint wiggled his fingers at Naser. “What- what’s wrong with-” There was a bang at the door, startling Naser. “It’s open!” shouted Flint. The door flung open, and two short humanoids with long, hairy arms and sloping foreheads entered with a shuffling gait, one supporting the other. The shortest of the two moaned, its feet dragging along the ground. “Dump him, then get out.” Flint gestured at a spot in the middle of the room, directly under the hanging light. He watched, hands on hips, as the midget was lowered to the floor. The other, having deposited its companion on the ground, made its exit immediately and without hesitation. Flint looked at Naser and pointed at the groaning homo habilis writhing on the ground. “Fix him.” Naser stared in shock at the squirming figure. “Ah… okay…” he attempted to push himself from the seat and was paralyzed by an intense stabbing in his shoulders. His face contorted in a silent rictus. “What’s the matter, little wing?” inquired Flint. “M-my back…” Naser reached around the arch of his spine, trying to grasp the base of his wings. “Need to… I need-” “Oh! Is that all it is? Let me help you with that.” Flint stepped over the twitching homo habilis, ducking under the lights. He swung behind Naser. “What? No- wait!” Grabbing the stalks of Naser’s wings, Flint shoved the dislocated bones into their sockets with a loud clicking, popping noise. Naser screamed, his legs kicking. Gradually, the agony subsided, replaced by a deep, dull throb that pulsed along the width of his shoulders. He rested for a moment, slack in the uncomfortable chair, bringing his breathing under control. Flint ambled to where Becky perched atop the stack of chairs, his eerie glance lingering on Naser. “Tick-tock, little wing,” he taunted, his tone laced with menace. “Your patient awaits.” Naser closed his eyes, retreating inward. The only way out of this nightmare was through the thing on the ground - his patient. The habilis formed a focus, a figure of hope, and a path to freedom tied together in one neat, hairy little skin-wrapped package. The pain that pulsed in his head, his face, and his back, the fear gnawing at his gut, all of it was irrelevant, a distraction. What mattered was the task. All he needed was to be certain of one important detail… “If I… ‘fix him,’ will you let me go?” Tilting his head and pursing his lips, Flint thought for a moment. He shrugged his shoulders with exaggerated nonchalance. “Yeah, sure, little wing,” he drawled. “Whatever you want.” It was enough. It had to be enough. It didn’t hurt that much. Naser rose from the chair, his head spinning, shoulders shrieking. He felt a tooth splinter off under his tightly clenched jaw. He spat it on the floor. “I’ll need my bag from the car. It has my medical instruments.” Becky slid off her perch. “On it. See, Flint? I told you he was a doctor.” “What can I say, babe,” Flint replied, palms up in acquiescence. “You had it pegged.” She squeezed Flint's hand as she glided by him on the way out. “You might have Becky convinced, little wing,” Flint rumbled, watching Naser with a piercing glare. “But not me. The threat about your eyelids? That’s still on the table.” Words, that's all they were. Rolling up his sleeves, Naser kneeled by the quivering, ape-like humanoid. They had a name for the creature, he thought. He tried to recall what Flint had said before dragging Naser into this dreary room... “Cliff,” that was it. “My name is Doctor Arran. Can you describe the pain? Where’s it coming from?” Eyes rotating to meet Naser’s, Cliff's arm rose to weakly point at his stomach. “M-my belly… right side, down below.” Lifting Cliff’s shirt, Naser systematically pushed his fingers into Cliff's hairy abdomen, skin hot to touch, probing for a reaction. “Does it hurt more if I press here? How about here? Or-” his fingers gently pressed and released against a rigid mass. Cliff shuddered, grunting with pain. On closer inspection, Naser was certain that he could see a swelling. A hernia, perhaps? “When were you born, Cliff?” “Eight- Urgh!” Cliff twitched; he turned his head to one side and vomited a thick pool of bile. He spat, clearing his throat. “Eighteenth… of January ten-fifteen.” No more than seventeen years old. One of many orphans, the still-living victims of the meteor, scraping by. “Have you been doing any heavy lifting?” “That work-shy prick?” Flint cut in. “No, all he’s good for is getting into places he doesn’t belong.” “Has there been any blood in your urine lately, Cliff? Do you feel like you need to take a piss?” Cliff slowly rocked his head left and right. No. “How long has it been since you passed stool- since you took a shit?” “Um… three, maybe four days.” Naser had extensive education and experience as a surgeon, but homo physiology was not his area of expertise. While dinosaurs and the humanoid species shared common diseases due to evolutionary convergence, the physiological difference between the two groups, including those between sub-groups, represented a significant risk of misdiagnosis. Medical textbooks were filled with examples of incorrect decisions based on flawed assumptions derived from physiological stereotypes. The consequences of such mistakes were often severe. Many lives had been lost at the hands of well-meaning medical practitioners throughout history, hard lessons that had come at a high cost. If Naser were to make such an error now, it could cost not only his patient's life but his own. Naser hadn’t worked on a homo patient in years, and when he had, it was under the guidance of experts. What did he remember from his perfunctory studies of homo biology? There’s the difference in immune system receptors as highlighted by the dengue fever outbreak of 200M1905 BC… the particulars of the vascular system and specialist anesthesiology… strains of flu… Abdominal pain, though… Naser recalled one infamous misdiagnosis from 199M1821 BC, where a human doctor had mistakenly treated a tyrannosaurus for appendicitis, leading to that patient's untimely death. Dinosaurs don’t have an appendix, as any schoolchild can tell you, but it wasn't common knowledge amongst human doctors at that time. By Naser’s limited understanding of homo anatomical disorders, Cliff’s symptoms matched those of acute appendicitis, and Naser hadn’t removed a single appendix in his entire career. He felt something shaking against his thighs; it took him a moment to realize it was his hands. Becky slipped into the room, hauling Naser’s doctor's bag by the handle. “Phew! This thing feels like it’s full of rocks!” She dropped the bag next to Naser and returned to her vantage point on the chairs. Naser went through the familiar routine of checking blood pressure. Taking a pulse. Listening to breath pass in and out of lungs through a stethoscope. It was pointless; he knew what to do yet delayed the inevitable, but he needed it, this moment. The normalcy of it, the meditative nature of a ritual well-rehearsed. He hadn’t replenished the bag after what had happened in his car last night. It had remained where he had left it, partially open on the front passenger seat. The bag still carried an ample supply of everything he needed except for one vital ingredient. It contained no anesthetic of any kind, local or otherwise. The prospect of performing surgery on a conscious, unsedated and fully-feeling individual gave him pause. For a moment, he imagined himself in place of that doctor from 1821, elbows deep in the guts of a screaming, thrashing person, scrabbling impotently for an organ that just wasn’t there. “Ah, Flint, Becky… I think I have to cut Cliff open and remove his appendix, or it will kill him.” He felt himself swallow. “You wouldn’t happen to have any local anesthetic lying around, would you?” They gazed at each other. “We have aspirin?” Becky offered, her statement framed like a question. “Ether, chloroform, anything to sedate Cliff?” Naser heard desperation creeping into his voice. Flint snorted and crossed his arms. “We don’t have anything like that, little wing. Whatever that shit is.” “Okay, okay, how about alcohol- or opium! Do you have opioids?” “Those we do have,” said Flint. Naser felt some of the weight lift from his shoulders. “But not for him.” Flint flicked a hand at Cliff. “What?” asked Naser in shock. Cliff’s breath caught in his throat. Becky studied the wall. Flint smirked as if enjoying a private joke. He picked at his fingernails. “He’s been pinchin’ goodies from the larder has our young Cliff,” he said in a poor imitation of a cockney accent. “Takin’ more than worth his keep. Reckoned he could dip his hand without me spottin’ ‘im! What a lark; everybody knows my eyes are always open.” He lowered his hulking frame to hover over Cliff, hands and knees on the floor. “It’s not the stealing I mind so much, Cliff,” Flint murmured, “it’s that you think I’m enough of a fucking idiot to not notice.” His crazy, bulging eyes rolled to stare directly at Naser. “As he has planted, so does he harvest; such is the field of karma.” Cliff trembled, tears welling in his eyes. “Please, Flint, I’m sorry I-” Flint glowered at Cliff. “Shut your mouth, worm! Without me, you would be another corpse for the landfill. It's time to pay your karmic debt through a rite of hardship, Cliff. It's time to become a man.” Rising to his feet, he brushed his knees and adjusted his belt. Naser stared at him in horror. Flint stared back, face hard as stone. “Anything else you need, little wing?” “I- we need a few things before we can begin-” *** Strangely, Naser felt at home to a small degree. The smell of bleach, a plastic tub with soapy water and fresh towels, a set of sterilized instruments within reach laid out in a neat array, a huddle of men around a patient, scrubbed and clean. The room's atmosphere had become something like that of an operating theater, a mote of normalcy in this hostile place. Still kneeling on the floor, though. His aching knees added to the score of pains that wracked his body. He gazed about at the ape-like thugs of indeterminable race beside him, ready to pin a shirtless and frightened Cliff to the floor at Naser’s request. Not a single human among them, he noticed. Very strange. All scabs must die… “Little wing, we’re waiting,” growled Flint through a surgical mask. Exhaling, Naser performed one last visual check. “Okay… Gus, bring the light over here so I can see. The rest of you guys, hold him; he can’t be allowed to move an inch. Cliff…” The youth watched him, eyes wide with terror. Rapid huffs of air hyperventilated through his nostrils around a block of wood that served as a bite stick. “I’m sorry. I’ll do my best to make this as quick as possible.” What if my diagnosis is wrong? Naser asked himself. Do all subspecies within the homo species group even have an appendix? Does the disease express the same symptoms across the entire genus? What if- Stop. He looked at his hands. Stop shaking. His hands became still. Naser picked up a scalpel. “Cliff, have you ever heard of a school called Volcano High?” He began to cut.