On the outskirts of Skin Row, I looked out to the highway, my vision blurring as headlights flashed by. I was looking for a distraction, a tool, some focus to overpower the feelings that gnawed at me. Numbness. Indifference. Apathy. Familiar foes, demons that promised blissful ignorance, to “take the edge off”. But I won’t allow it. I can’t sink so far as to lose sight of the surface. So I remind myself of why I’m here, of who I am. Of what I’ve done. ‘My name is Anon. I’ve made mistakes and I’ve suffered for them. Four years ago, I threw away the only good thing the world had ever given to me. Today, I’ll probably end up hurting someone, someone I’ve never met, over something I know he doesn’t have. I never wanted this, but that doesn’t matter. Not anymore. This is who I have become.’ Feeling grounded, I let out a long sigh, deflating on the dusty steel bench and taking in the scenery of the quaint, roadside inn. Two stories of mottled brickwork make up Morgan’s Motel, topped off with a flickering neon signpost and a peeling billboard advertising some celebrity’s vodka brand. Even at midnight, a couple of illuminated windows show that Skin Row never really sleeps. In fact, the nightlife’s really quite appealing, if you enjoy knife fencing or needle swapping. “Needle swapping? What, you have been hitting the juice again, Annie?”. Damn mumbling. The high-pitched voice sends me into high alert as I whip my head towards the source. Standing on my right is a skinny, young parasaurolophus, with crimson red scales and a shock of platinum blonde hair. Behind round, gold-rimmed glasses, his eyes were upturned slits, his faded green pupils barely visible. Hale. My “partner in crime”, as he often stylizes himself, and a chronic patient of never-shut-up syndrome. In the three months we’ve been doing jobs together, I’ve learned not to humor his jabs, so I offer him an exaggerated blink in response. He flashes a flat-toothed smirk as I rise to my feet and smooth out my dark, tight sweater. Hale’s roughly at my height thanks to his crest, but he’s noticeably dwarfed by my physique, the result of three years in the Navy without any outlet for pent-up frustration. I check my phone and flatly state, “You’re late again, Hale.” He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his signature attire, a sleek black jacket that goes down to his thighs. I’m convinced it’s a woman’s raincoat, he claims I don’t understand high fashion. “I’m here.” He rolls his shoulders, “What’s the rush, anyway? Don’t tell me you’ve made plans without me tonight.” I turn away from him to peer into the window behind me. Raptor Jesus, I wish I did. His scoff tells me I said that out loud, but I stay focused on the interior behind the dusty glass. The reception area is decorated like a dentist’s office, with one corner dedicated to comfy chairs and tabloid magazines. In the back of the room is a round desk with a single computer, operated by a green triceratops who looks ready to pass out any second now. Hale taps my shoulder and asks, “So how’s it lookin, Annie?” He adds, “How old is she?” “Seems fine, nothing-wait what?” Incredulous, I turn to see him with a droll expression on his face. “The receptionist. How old is she?” He says as if asking for the weather forecast. I glance back towards the glass, squinting to see through the blinds. “I don’t know, middle-aged? On the older side, late 30’s maybe.“ I rotate fully to face him, and try to continue, “Why does that matter, we’re not here for the-” I’m cut off as he puts a finger in front of his beak, loudly shushing me. He saunters over to the door, rubbing his hands together before dramatically pausing in front of the entrance. He gives me one last look of rehearsed confidence before literally falling forward into the door, wailing with a stage-worthy tenor, “OHHHHH, REFUGE! At last, somewhere to rest my weary bones…” Peering through the window, I see the receptionist have a small heart attack at the unexpected theatrics. Hale staggers to his feet, gazing into the triceratops’s eyes with an expectant grin. After a second of utter confusion, the receptionist’s hand flies to her mouth as she’s overtaken by fits of giggles. I roll my eyes and trudge over to the door, pulling my black beanie low on my face in embarrassment. Stepping into the threshold, I see Hale dropping into a low bow, slinking towards the desk as the receptionist claps apprehensively, probably trying to determine whether the clown in front of her is high on life or just cracked out of his mind. I don’t interfere with Hale’s performance. I’ve seen him in action enough times to know that when it comes to people, he knows exactly what to say and do to get what he needs. I wouldn’t call him charismatic, but he’s got a certain charm, at least on the surface. He’s like a poison dart frog; slippery, quick, and distracting. Before you realize your hand was outstretched, he’d have already grazed you with his oozing toxins. Tuning back into the conversation, I hear the receptionist speaking with a bubbly tone, “That’s right, room 26, second floor. Should I let him know you’re coming?” Hale leans forward over the desk, his tail coiling ever so slightly around his leg. He responds smoothly, saying, “No thank you, my dear, you’ve done quite enough for us tonight. Besides, I think our friend would enjoy the surprise. He’s been really downtrodden these days, money problems. Needs a little something to lift his spirits.” He grins wickedly, his eyes turning up further into tiny crescents. The meaning is lost on the receptionist, who offers a sympathetic smile in response, returning to her computer a second later. Hale raps on the desk and performs an about-face, making eye contact with me and gesturing towards an elevator. I give him a nod and join him as he presses the only available button. The doors slide open with a ding, and we both enter, standing shoulder to shoulder in the cramped metal coffin. As soon as the doors are shut, Hale gives me a sharp whistle, and I look him in the eyes to see him purposely glancing at his left wrist. He lifts his sleeve, and from within his raincoat falls out a padlock, attached to a length of chain that climbs up his arm. He looks up expectantly as I roll my eyes again. When I first met Hale, we were both assigned a protection gig, supervising a particularly antsy drug dealer. The client asked to see what each of us was carrying for the job, and I assured him I still had a service weapon from the Navy. A lie, of course, but it calmed the supplier’s nerves. When it came to Hale to show his hand, he appeared lost in thought for a moment, before strolling over to a nearby dumpster and diving right into it. He flailed around for a bit before coming up with a weapon of mass destruction; a foot-long glass bong, one end smashed into a sharp point. He did end up getting some use out of it when he stabbed the client for refusing to pay his cut on the grounds of “fucking carelessness”. Since then, Hale’s made it his mission to find more and more unwieldy weapons to bring along on jobs, knowing that nine times out of ten I’ll be the only one with bloody knuckles. My trip down memory lane is interrupted by a familiar tone, and the doors part to reveal a dimly lit hallway, plastered with faded floral wallpaper and studded with dull plaques denoting room number to separate each identical door. Hale strides in front, his tail swishing side to side as he hangs his “weapon” like some ghetto pocket watch. I follow close behind, but my mind is distant. Whatever comes next, I need to feel it. This isn’t high school or the Navy. I can’t just drift through life anymore, because I know how easy it would be. To let go of myself and waste away into some specter. ‘It’s all I’ve ever wanted’ Those words from all those years ago still bite at me, my poor attempt to cope with the worst mistake of my life on that beach. Those words are the reason I spent three years in hell out at sea only to end up right back where I started. Gritting my teeth, I pull down my left sleeve, staring at the one mark of my Navy days I chose to keep with me. A small tattoo of a single, angelic feather on my wrist. Not some sailor tradition, but a personal reminder. Of her. Right below it are long, white scars of varying thickness. Marks that can never be removed. I glance up to see that Hale’s stopped, facing a door labeled “026”. A piece of duct tape already covers the peephole. He pushes his glasses up and steps aside. This next part is my job. From my jeans pockets, I pull out a long, rigid wire, one end twisted into a hook. Squatting low, I slide the wire under the door before bending the end on my side about 90 degrees upwards. I feed more of the hook under the door before jimmying it around, trying to latch onto the chain lock on the other side. Thankfully, the motel hasn’t upgraded to keycards yet, or this would’ve taken a lot more pleas to Raptor Jesus. Sharply tugging, I feel the wire catch something, and I carefully move the hook to the left. From the other side, the sound of a chain jangling confirms my success. I quickly retract the device and stand up straight before swiftly knocking on the door. The moist wood produces a loud thunk-thunk, and Hale looks at me in disbelief, quickly flattening himself against the wall. He hisses in a fearful whisper, “Are you crazy?! We could’ve just walked right in!” I don’t pay him any mind, listening intently to the sounds behind the door. Soft footsteps, tentative at first, then a loud thumping as the resident sprints towards the unlatched chain. I wait just a few moments more, Hale sweating bullets to my right, before flinging the door open with all of my strength. A loud crack can be heard as the rigid door collides with the poor man’s hand, snapping his outstretched fingers like coffee sticks. What follows is a cacophony of motion; a shrill squeal of pain, a fleshy thud on hardwood, and the clattering of a metal object falling to the ground. I waste no time in entering the room, assessing the results of my trespass. Cradling his twisted hand in a fetal position is a dark-skinned pterodactyl with blue highlights who looks about 30. He fits with the description we were given, confirming this as our target, a mechanic named Caleb. Supposedly, he took out a loan to spruce up some foreign supercar, but never found a buyer among the fat cats of Skin Row. Behind him, a small iron revolver rattles on the floorboards, its cylinder hanging open with a couple of bullets already rolling around. I step over the writhing ptero and pick up the firearm, emptying it fully and tossing it onto the bed down the hall. Hale pokes his head in with an overwhelmed expression, but upon seeing everything under control, color returns to his face. He’s back in his element. He squats low in front of the mechanic, tilting his head as the poor guy whimpers, slowly turning his snout to look Hale in his squinted eyes. Hale doesn’t move, hanging his jaw as he sizes up the debtor for what feels like an eternity. In a flash of motion, he grabs Caleb by his tank-top collar and pulls him to his feet, marching him down the hall before the man can resist. He smiles gleefully and begins speaking loudly, “Heya, grease monkey! Sorry about the fingers, the missus won’t be too pleased about that, I’m sure, but I think-!” He punctuates his taunting with a shove, pushing the mechanic into a recliner seat near the back windows of the dingy living room. “-that you have more pressing matters on your hands. Well - hand, now, apologies.” The mechanic sputters, clutching at the armrests and shrinking into the soft chair in fear. His eyes flicker from Hale to me, as I start poking around the shelves and counters of a grubby kitchenette. Caleb finally strings together some words, stuttering as he asks, “W-Who are you t-two? Are y-you with those m-m-moneylenders? I-If I could just talk, just talk to them, they could-“ Hale spreads his arms out wide, with a look of surprise, as if he had just been shown some great hospitality. He speaks with a hushed tone to say, “Calm, calm. We’re on your side here, friend. Me and him’re like a couple of mechanics ourselves, you know? We’re gonna take you right apart, find out what’s wrong, and get you back on track, see?” A sinister tone crept into Hale’s voice with his last delivery, and Caleb turned his head to look at him with only one eye, his good hand clinging onto the chair for dear life. I let out a heavy sigh, getting the man to focus on me with a pleading look. I don’t have the patience for Hale’s theatrics tonight. “You took money from our boss,” I say in an exasperated tone. “Money you promised to pay back. The deadline’s passed, we haven’t been paid, so we’re here to collect. Where is the money?” He exhales sharply, taking in a few heaving breaths as Hale stares off into space. Caleb gasps before collecting himself, saying “…I haven’t got it. I just-I don’t, I don’t have it on me right NOW!” His voice sharply rises on his last word as my hand tightly grips onto the headrest. When did I even walk over from the kitchen? Caleb looks straight ahead in terror as I take a moment, snapping back into reality. ‘Collect yourself, Anon. Don’t do something you’ll regret later.’ I unclenched my other hand which had already curled into a fist before continuing, “Think carefully. Unless it grew legs and walked away, you must’ve spent it on something.” At this, he raises a finger, awkwardly looking up and behind to try and meet my eyes. He talks quickly, as a relieved look washes over him, “The car! Y-yes, I spent it on the car, a-an older model, but the engine’s brand new!” He glances back and forth between me and Hale, the two of us already making eye contact as Caleb continues, “If you give me a week, just one more week, I p-promise you, I’ll have it sold! People are lining up to buy this beast, I-I mean I can probably make back double what I took out for-“ He’s cut off by Hale, who’s slithered his long tail onto the armrest with Caleb’s shattered fingers. Hale looks to me, and I crack a smile. He returns the expression and leans in close to the mechanic, whose eyes haven’t left the appendage taking up his armrest. Hale picks up with a chuckle, saying, “My friend, why would we need to wait a week? You’ve just told us where the money is. Right, Annie?” I had already made my way back to the hallway, finding a small bowl on a dresser filled with keychains. I give Hale a thumbs-up as I begin fishing around, looking for any keys that stand out. By now, Caleb realizes whats about to transpire, and makes a final plea, pulling Hale close with his good hand. “N-No wait! Trust me, I can get the money, hell, I can triple it! Just let me sell the car, I know the market for these things better than-“ Hale’s blood-red tail comes down hard on Caleb’s left hand with a sickening crunch, sending the ptero into howling agony. He casually turns away, reaching into one of his raincoat’s inner pockets to produce a handful of bills and change, nothing higher than a 5-dollar note. He tosses the cash into Caleb’s lap, adding, “How’s that for a sale, hm? If you ask me, you got off pretty good, grease monkey.” Hale slinks away from the recliner, tail whipping lazily as he joins me in the hallway. “We good, Anon?” After some digging around, I came up with an electric key fob, imprinted with a logo even I recognize as high-end. Attached to the keyring is a charm of a flaming, winged tire. Confident, I pocket the device and idly nod, Hale slapping me on the back as he passes the threshold. I take one last look at room 26, admiring our relatively smooth operation. Crime scene etiquette doesn’t apply in Skin Row, I doubt the police force even has a forensics team. As for the mutilated dino in the chair, if he knows anything about who he took his money from, he’ll stay quiet. I take one long look at Caleb, taking in his features from head to toe. I never forget this part. I never forget them, the ones I leave behind. When the mechanic is finally able to meet my eyes, I turn away, shifting out into the hall and pulling the door shut. ——— After the not-so-social call at the inn, Hale and I descend into the labyrinthine subway system that connects every dark alley of Skin Row. We find an empty box and prepare for a long ride. Morgan’s Motel was the end of the line for the metro, and our destination lies in the heart of Volcaldera City. Right now, I just want to be back at my apartment, eating reheated takeout and watching some flavor-of-the-month shonen shit with passable animation. But for this job, in particular, the boss, a stego called Wing, wanted to see us afterward. Not a strange request when he expects us to be carrying a fuckton of his cash or the body parts of some poor mechanic. Pulling my beanie down over my eyes, I try to catch some shut-eye before we arrive. Wing expressly told us to take the car if Caleb couldn’t pay in full, but I suspect he’ll want us to collect the damn thing from the auto shop on the same night. Sighing, I tune out the rattle of the subway car and slowly drift into torpor, passing to the other side after a couple of minutes of controlled breathing. That’s when I began to see them. Suddenly, I was standing in a valley, between two bluffs of sand, speckled with sprouts of seagrass. A dense fog hung low in the air, obscuring anything past a few arm's length. A footpath sloped down in front of me, leading to the sea. It was strewn with wilted feathers and splotches of blood. The distant sound of crashing waves filled out the eerie atmosphere of this place. The scene was familiar to me by now. I trudged forward, taking care not to step on the bits of down that littered the sand. I’d been through this enough times to know that I should keep my eyes forward, but I still knew what shapes lingered high on the flanking hills. Silhouettes. Faded versions of all the people I’ve hurt. They were so distant, I couldn’t even tell if they were facing me, or if they had turned their backs. But I recognized them all the same. On my right were the people who trusted me. Stella. Rosa. Reed and Trish. Naser, Naomi, even Ripley and Samantha. I let them all down on that day. The shadows on the left were less familiar, but they hurt all the same. Different memories, the figures of the ones I harmed all on my own. Old enemies from Rock Bottom, pricks from the Navy, and everything I’ve been ashamed of since returning to Skin Row. As the path widened out and the bluffs flattened, I looked over my shoulder to see a new shape on the left. A diminutive, dark-skinned pterodactyl, clutching his hand behind his back. I kept walking. By now, feathers were falling all around me, these more full and defined. Birds of prey circled from above, their off-white plumage all but blending in with the fog. I finally reached the shore and prepared myself for the worst part. She didn’t come to me as a silhouette like the others, or even as a voice. She didn’t appear at all. But I could feel her, right in front of me. Fang. A compulsion washes over me, telling me to turn around. Wordlessly, she tells me to let her go, to just forget and move on. For a moment, I turn around. The hills and shadows have vanished, and a wall of fog lies in front of me. Like a blank canvas, an untouched field of white awaits, inviting me to start all over and fill it in with new strokes of vibrant hues. The thought is venomously appealing. Why not start from scratch? My “friends” all hate me, my parents have forgotten I exist, and of course, Fang was gone. She was the only reason I had any attachment to that senior semester, and now she was as good as dead. By now she’s probably halfway across the country busking for change or working some minimum wage job, just to get away from me. Who can blame her? Even if she was around, what would she think of me now? Some psychopathic skinnie working as a leg-breaker for the sharks of Skin Row doesn’t strike me as a damn Prince Charming. No matter how near or far she is, I’m even farther away from who I used to be than the distance between us. … So why can’t I leave it all behind? Why can’t I move on? I’m standing in front of a fresh start, the person I cared about most begging me to take that step, but I’m paralyzed. Why?! Her silent compulsions whirled around my head, mixing with my thoughts until I couldn’t distinguish the two. Any attempt to rationalize why I held on to such painful memories was ripped to shreds by the torrent of emotions that stormed inside of me. As my foot came off the ground to take the step, one final reason came to the foreground of my mind. It’s because I’m me. There is no rationale, no purpose to be gleaned from my torment. Maybe it’s hope, or punishment, or hopeless delusions, but whatever it is that keeps me hanging on, I can’t change it. Without Fang, even as a memory, I can’t imagine where my mind would go. And I don’t want to. All that matters is her. “Sorry, Fang,” I mutter. I turn around from the fog to see the beach again as the slate-grey sea laps at my feet. I feel her presence again, but this time it's distant, our separation no less drastic than the vast body of water that lies in front of me. Lifting my foot from the tides, I trudge forward as the taloned gulls above cry out and disperse. After a couple of steps, the seabed drops and I’m suddenly submerged in the silvery sea. Surrounded by frigid water on all sides, I can hardly tell up from down as I fall deeper and deeper into the abyss. Even if I wanted to reach the surface I was sinking faster than my lungs could’ve taken me. I let out my last breath and go limp before I’m taken away by the cold numbness of what comes after. Then I open my eyes. I’m back in the grimy subway car, watching as Hale dances around a set of poles singing along to whatever’s playing in his earbuds. Today’s dream hit much harder than usual, but I smile nonetheless. It was progress. The first time I saw her the waves crested over my head, dragging me under before I even felt her “voice”. This time I got at least 5 steps out in the languid current before coming back to. I’m no therapist (not counting the moments I had with Fang), but I’m sure there's some meaning to all that. My reflections are interrupted by the rattle of the subway as it comes to a screeching halt. A cracked LED display signals we’ve arrived in the entertainment district of Volcaldera City. Right on the edge of what was technically Skin Row, most residents avoided this quarter regardless. I rise to my feet as Hale pockets his earbuds and strides over, still whipping his tail to an upbeat rhythm. He softly punches my shoulder and remarks, “Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty. For a moment, I thought you’d be out for the night.” He gives me a once-over, noticing my lidded eyes and dour expression. “…You good Annie? You’re looking kinda battered right now.” The doors slide open, releasing us into the station as I make my way to the exit stairs. Hale follows closely with a look of concern that I can’t decipher as genuine or not. I rub my eyes and mumble, “Just tired, is all. Let's get this over with.” He seems to accept this response and takes his worried eyes off of me. We reach the top of the stairs and out onto the surface, surrounded by the usual sights of the city. Each gray sky-rise is just as featureless as the last, the only variety being the menagerie of lowlifes sleeping under the facades of the establishments on floor level. Walking past barrel fires and cardboard shelters, Hale and I ducked into a storied parking garage and went down a level. We stop in front of a reinforced metal door devoid of any knob or handle. It’s unmarked, save for a single neon sign to the right, which reads: “PIZZA TIME”