201m2022 B.C. January 15th. Weather: balls freezing. Time? Too early for the drinks. Amongst the moving hustle that people call life stands you. A normal-looking, absolutely average human being. One of the few in Volcadera Bluffs, but one of many here on Skin Row. You wear the most simple, inconspicuous clothes possible. Jeans that are slightly worn out and covered in patches and stitches. A cheap sweater that looked like it fought a battle with a plethora of different liquids (presumably alcohol) and lost. Your favorite shitty nylon jacket with crudely stitched XIII symbols on the back and two crappily made shoulder pads (you thought they made you look cool, but honestly, they look overly excessive. Oh, and can't forget your beret that covers your cleanly shaved head. In other words, you look like a hobo… but this is the style that you were going for.

 

You see, you may look like a hobo, but inside your jacket, you have two things that either will cause every resident of Skin Row shit their pants… or will cause your body to be found in the bay the next morning. That's right, your trusty police badge and the standard issue .38 Cobalt revolver. Well, as a standard issue as it can be with a custom-made handle. That's right, my friend, you are a cop, a coppa, and fuckhead, a pig or whatever type of insult local drunks and impressionable youth will throw at you. In other words, you are a walking anomaly on the streets of Skin Row. A fucking hurricane, the crime-solving machine… and the best cop around.

 

"Alright, done hyping myself up! Now I feel like actually working."

 

Yes, this is your usual morning routine before starting your usual day of honest (as honest as a cop can be) work. You refer to yourself in second person and then proceed to say the most obvious shit imaginable. Maybe it is unhealthy, but eh, fuck it, one life - your rules. You take out your badge to inspect if you damaged it by accident. Just in check, you cannot recall half of yesterday's evening after your third bottle of cheap vodka. Yes, just check the damn badge.

 

Thankfully no dents or scratches. Just some greasy fingerprints. You inspect the letters.

 

"Detective Rando P. Erson"

 

That's right, this is your very real name. Some people thought it was your attempt at humor, but no it is your real name. The word "detective" still fills you with pride and joy. You are only 31 and already a crime-solving fucking maestro… until you remember the chain of command and you realize that you are just a bitch for everyone in your station. But hey, they won't dare to make fun of you or call you a "skinnie", you have one CRIPPLING over-specialisation which makes you irreplaceable. You are a Skin Row soul through and through.

 

Ah, Skin Row. The poorest, the most deranged, drug-filled crime-riddled district in town, hell, maybe the whole state… And it is home. It is a place to be. A place to return. And you would never trade anything for it. It is a part of you, and you - its extension. There is something incredibly amazing about knowing about this place more than any other coppa on the streets. Really gives you an edge.

 

*BZZZZZZZ*

 

Well, speaking of the edge… You take a cheap flip phone out of your pocket. You open it and press the "Answer" button.

 

"Hello and good morning, Jannette!" you say.

 

On the other side of the line, you can hear a very loud sigh which translates to "Oh Raptor Jesus, please, give me strength to deal with this shit". Finally, you hear a stern, raspy female voice.

 

"Detective Erson… you are the only police officer in the entire country who uses a bloody phone to contact the headquarters…"

 

"Well, better that than the radio… harder to tap."

 

Actual truth. For some reason despite the lack of police on these streets, local gangs found a way to tap into police chatter. Fuckers use it to make sure that they won't get caught selling carfe or some other shit. Well… another, this time painful truth is…

 

"Aaaaaand I don't have a car with a radio."

 

You are not allowed to drive, not after the church incident… man, that brick wall was rather strong.

 

"Of course you don't have a car…"

 

Another annoyed sigh. Man, you don't get any respect today huh?

"Anyway, detective Erson, I assume you are in the Skin Row area"

 

"No, I am at Little Troodon, visiting Dino-Moe's… Of course I am patrolling Skin Row."

 

Now I am getting annoyed. I guess me and old Jennie are like oil and water that wish each other the worst death possible.

 

"Right… Anyway, we received a call a moment before. Some poor guy at the local establishment has found a body near his… Store?"

 

"Street and Name?"

 

"Rex Walk Ave. A store called "Liquid Space"... Apparently it is a restaurant. The caller identified themselves as the owner of the establishment. Their name is Doug Jameson."

 

A body near a restaurant? You can already see it… a small family restaurant that tries to maintain some resemblance of decency here on Skin Row. Named "Liquid Space" because the owner is a self-proclaimed "Artistic Master" and tried to come up with a cool and creative name… obviously failing at that. But it is a decent place nonetheless, despite a fresh rot-bag coloring the side alleyway.

 

"I think I know that place. Family restaurant, its owner is an overly polite ankylosaur. I'll go there now, look into this… body situation."

 

"Very well, you do that… I need to write a report to the commissioner. Call the HQ when you are done."

 

*CLICK*

 

Well then… Guessing it is time for work. Quickly you fold your flip-phone and it disappears into your pocket. Popping off your collar and lighting a second cig today, you rush to "Liquid Time". You try to remember how far away it is. One hour by foot, you recall… You can make it in 15 minutes.

 

Taking all the manners of shortcuts, alleyways, rooftops, opened doors and gates you make it to the restaurant in under 12 minutes. Heh, your personal new record for guessing. Approaching "Liquid Space" you already see a decently aged ankylosaur nervously prancing around the alleyway next to his restaurant. Bloody hell, the guy looks like a mess. His eyes are running from side to side, looking for someone, he actively tears the hair from his hair and you can see him shaking. What a fucking coward… Positive thoughts, Rando, positive thoughts.

 

You approach him, emerging from the crowds.

 

"Mister Jameson?"

 

Ankylosaur turns to me.

 

"Y-yes… that is me?"

 

Did… did this guy just answer me with a question? Nevermind.

 

"Detective Rando Erson of the Volcadera Bluffs Police Department. I am here to investigate the body that was reported around 15 minutes ago… I assume you are the one who discovered it?"

 

Smooth. Professional. Talk. You love it.

 

"Oh, thank god you arrived this soon, officer!"

 

Jameson sighs with relief but you still can hear the uneasiness in his voice… It isn't fear or shock from discovering a body… more like he tries not to set you off.

 

"I arrived as soon as possible, sorry for the wait. Now, if you could show me where the body is…"

 

"Ah, but of course, follow me."

 

Alright, time for some witness reportin'… Witness number 1: Doug Jameson, owner of the "Liquid Place" family restaurant. Very slim, almost anorexic-looking ankylosaur. Scales color - brown. Eyes - also brown. Hair? Short red and recently just got shorter (heh). Personality: polite and nervous. The possibility of them being the prep is close to zero.

 

As you make that mental note, Doug leads me to the trash container behind his establishment. Fuck, you can see a leg sticking out of it. Not a human one, at least. Pointing at the trash container you turn to Doug… he nods nervously. You open the lid. Fuck, the smell… not the flesh rotting, thank god. But something is rotting inside the container.

 

"Ah fuck… When was the last time the container was emptied?"

 

"I-i think four days ago? Garbage collectors rarely drive through here…"

 

Yeah, just like the rest of the services here. To spend as little time as possible here… Well, time for the investigation. You take out some gloves that you carry in yours jacket's pockets and proceed with the… well, the nasty part.

 

Let's assess. What can we see here? Young raptor, around 20-25 years old. Rather well dressed, brand jeans, the designer coat… Definitely not from this part of town. A tourist? Maybe he was kidnapped? No, no signs of struggle or entrapment. It was a clean, sucker punch kill… You can clearly see a stab wound on his stomach, three of them in fact, one of them is gashing… and is still bleeding. Interesting.

 

"How long ago did you discover this body?"

 

Mister Jameson is somewhat surprised by my question.

 

"A-about 5 minutes before calling you… so I guess 20 minutes ago?"

 

Man, this is gonna be easy. Here we have a tourist, three stabbing wounds, no sign of decay, no sign of struggle… You think you can already see the picture. This wasn't some pre-planned kill or some action of reason. This is a spontaneous act of passion. And you think you know the reason.

 

"Drug dealer, eh?"

 

Yup, it is, in fact, correct. You are certain of it. Why? Well, you can smell it. The familiar smell. The smell that you were warned about that one time. You were told not to ever consume it, no matter how tempting it might be.

 

"Carfentanil."

 

Lethal for humans such as yourself, but dinos love that shit. Now the picture is complete. The tourist came to Skin Row in an attempt to sell some carfe, found a buyer but probably jacked the price too high. The argument ensued and the buyer must've lost his or her patience and stabbed the dealer several times… desperation is bitch like that. You took notice of the door near the container.

 

"Is that a backdoor, mister Jameson?"

 

"Y-yeah, it leads to the back of my storage room…"

 

"Is it usually open?"

 

 "Y-yeah? Nobody ever tried to rob me before… and I used that door to, ya know, pick up some deliveries… and stuff"

 

Smells like some shady stuff, but not now, not your main concern. The door was open… if our addict stabber was not completely deranged, he wouldn't have tried to escape through the main streets, while his or her hands were covered with blood. And this restaurant is packed early in the day… Hmmm…

 

"Mister Jameson, could you assist me in an arrest?"

 

"W-what? Like… Help you to investigate?"

 

"No sir. Can you close that door for a moment?"

 

***

 

You stand in front of the restaurant, before the entry door. If your hunch is correct, you might be able to catch the perp in the next 5 minutes. You bring your third cig this day to your leaps to draw some sweet smoke from it into your lungs. You are stealing your nerves for a good performance. Suddenly, your eyes witness the "No Smoking" sign near the door.

 

"Heh…"

 

You guess it is a sign for today, the city itself warns me. No more cigs today. You finish your cig, drop the butt on the ground and put the flames out with the heel of your boots.

 

"Well… Let's do this!"

 

You confidently open the door. Immediately all the eyes inside this place are directed at me. You take out my badge and lift it above my head.

 

"VBPD, nobody moves! I am here to investigate a murder that occurred 30 minutes ago!"

 

Usually, police training discourages such prominent self-announcement mid-investigation… But this situation is unique, it is your expertise. Skin Row bunch is a different one. Murders here are common, but also different. You can tell everything about a murderer here simply based on how the corpse was made. In this case, it was a sloppy mess, the person killed didn't see it even coming, the perp carelessly dumped the body into the trash container where it was immediately found, took an escape through the back door of the restaurant probably to slip into the bathroom to try to wash out the blood… This chain of events already tells you who the murderer is. A coward, a loser, an addict… Suddenly, some youngster in a gray hoodie and sunglasses stood up from their table and made a mad dash away from you and towards the "Staff Only" door.

 

"And incredibly fucking stupid."

 

A moment later you hear a loud thud and a scream. Bingo. You slowly go towards the storage area and open the door. The scenery there is about what you were expecting. Someone lying on the ground crying and sobbing while holding onto their shoulder. Jesus Raptor, thanks for the reinforced back doors. You approach the runway, as they try to collect their remaining will to stand up through the pain. As they are about to finally raise themselves onto their knees, you place your leg on their back and push them back down.

 

"You know, you really need to get off that shit… It rots your brain away. I mean, seriously, trying to escape the same way you entered? You think nobody would have figured that out?"

 

The perp was lying on the ground, completely still. As if they accepted the defeat. However, you know that the fight is not over yet… because every person tries the same shit at the end of the rope.

 

"You have nothing on me, pigfuck."

 

Verbal denial and insults. This shit annoys you.

 

"Well, I don't know about that. I mean we have a body that probably has a plethora of fingerprints and DNA trails. Oh, and don't think that washing the blood off will make it go away, its particles will remain even after you wash your clothes and hands. And a weapon… bet it is in the trash bin in the male bathroom."

 

The dino(?) underneath me was silent. You were right on all points. Man, it feels good to be right. Hmm? Why is this guy suddenly laughing?

 

"Of all the pigfucks to catch, it must be a fucking skinnie…"

 

…

 

You will enjoy this little meeting thoroughly.

 

***

 

Steve Redman. Age 24. Occupation: N/A. Place of Living: N/A. Criminal Record: was once caught for drug possession, was let out on bail… never appeared in court. Species: Dino. Subspecies: triceratops. Status: arrested for the murder of the second degree, drug possession and trespassing. At the moment of the arrest, the suspect had a dislocated shoulder that he got during an escape attempt. Besides that, several bruises were found on the back and the face. The injuries were the result of interaction with Officer Rando P. Erson, who was witnessed beating the suspect up after the latter used a slur directed at the officer.

 

Next task: inform the commissioner about your fuck up.

…

 

You really dropped the ball there, aren't you, Rando?

 

***

 

Well, that went about as well as expected. After being reprimanded by one of the senior officers at the scene, you were let go with the task of informing the commissioner about using the "Excessive Police Force". These fuckheads do not respect one of the first rules of Skin Row: talk shit get shit kicked in… Well, you were in the wrong there. No matter how much you were annoyed and pissed off, kicking the suspect for calling you a skinnie is a bit uncalled for, for Raptor Jesus's sake, you are a professional, not a gangbanger anymore. But, you hope that the boss will understand the situation and brush that problem aside. For now, you reckon you earned a bit of the rest. You look at the clock.

 

17:45… You were sober for more than 10 hours. Time to correct that. You take a leave, apologizing to mister Jameson for damaging his restaurant's back door with a dino skull beforehand. Now… where to go. Usually, you don't go to the same place again and again. Don't wanna people thereto  remember how fucked you are once you take your fill. So you guess you'd wander around. Let the city guide you. You are almost tempted to take out another cigarette, but the town's message is still clear within your mind.

 

"Well, the town said nothing about not drinking. Volcadera Bluffs… lead the way!"

 

You turn off your mind and just start walking. Many buildings pass in your way, yet none of them are clear enough to get your attention. Bars and clubs flicker at the edge of your eyes, but those places are far away, somewhere where you are not needed. You feel the pull, the unnatural sensation, the call. And then you stop. In front of you, some ran-down pizzeria. A half-hazardly placed letter on the roof spells the place's name. "Pizza Time".

 

"Really? Here?.. Well, I do love me some pizza from time to time. And it seems it does serve alcohol. Alright, we ball."

 

You enter the pizza place. Inside you see… something rather unexpected. Despite being a run-down shithole, the inside of the place feels cozy, homely even. People sit around, completely fine, as if they live in a place where nothing bad ever happens. You can see a couple making out at the back of the place, damn, dumb youth… godspeed to them though. The smell is… actually appetizing! The greasy, cheesy smell of a cheap pizza really does a number on your stomach. You need some, now! Commissioner can wait, you need some shitty pizza and booze. You take the first empty sit you notice and take your order.

 

"Basic pepperoni with extra cheese and two beers, please."

 

"What beer?"

 

"Heh, don't take me for a fool. We are in Skin Row, there is only one shitty watered-down shit available at every establishment."

 

"Eh, fair enough… your order will be ready in a moment, sir. For now please, enjoy the show."

 

The owner pointed to the stage. At the moment it was empty, but even now you can see something brewing backstage. It is rare for places like this to have live performances. At best, they will have a TV with whatever sports event is in season right now. You kinda look forward to this.

 

A moment later a group of three young musicians enter the stage. God, they all look defeated. One of them was a relatively weak-looking male parasaurolophus. Despite looking as frail as a glass statue, he was also the most confident-looking person out of the three. His greasy long brown hair and red as flame scales were still sparkling with life. The most hopeful, yet naive out of the group. 

 

Hope… Reminds me of someone rather important.

 

On the drums was a rather out-there raptor. Wearing some shitty, as some old-fashioned men would describe, oriental clothes, he looks as if he is not there. His purple scales flash with imagination, yet you can feel something somber within him.

 

Purple… you like purple… Night skies… warm hand wrapped in yours…

 

Fuck, those assholes made your brain produce some images you wish to forget. Repress. Repress. Where is the fucking beer…

 

And finally, at the front, holding the bass stands the… well, where you even begin. It was a gal pterodactyl. About 20 years old. Her hair was white silver, and they were cut short. Her eyes were unforgettable. An amber color capable of lighting up even the most cynical, most depressed souls, maybe even leading them to light. The light of brilliant amber. Her wings were vast and beautiful, yet you can see some spots that are empty. You heard about Ptero's peering, but isn't it more stress-related or… Wait, something is off about them. Despite being as bright as the lighthouse in the middle of the storm, beneath everything you can sense something sad. Something broken. Something regretful. Maybe it is her makeup with an emphasis on dark colors. Maybe it is her look filled with despair. Maybe it is the way she moved that made it look like she was about to collapse. She is here, yet her soul is… Oh, Raptor Jesus no…

 

Suddenly, an image from a couple of years ago found its way to you. You can see a dimly lit office. In front of you sits a massive, angry pterodactyl, whose eyes are filled with sadness. "Oi, Ripley, what is it about? Did I do something wrong?". He looks at me with those sad eyes, he probably doesn't even realize how he appears. "Not this time, Rando… it's just… well it is personal… Not work-related". His deep voice vibrates like a leaf on the wind. He looks at the small photo frame on his desk. You feel slightly ashamed but you took a sneak peek. It is a family photo. You can see Ripley, your boss, standing side by side with a smaller female pterodactyl with closed eyes. His wife. The one he loves deeply but desperately tries to hide. Beside them stood two younger pteros. One, a male, around 16. He looks exactly like his father, except the boy has some seriously fucked up wings. And the other young ptero was…

 

"Nooooooooo…"

 

"She… she left our house recently… Without a word. Didn't even give us an address for her new place" said Ripley. You are one of the few people here who he can talk to about something like that. You wish you could help him, but your skills are limited here. You are a patrol officer, not a family consultant. Boss… You want to help them. If only you could… What is his daughter's name?

 

"No fucking way…"

 

… It's Lucy Aaron, right?

 

***

 

That was bad. You almost had one of your episodes here in the middle of the pizza place. Thankfully your beer arrived just in time. After drinking it like your life depended on it, the world stopped spinning and the images of the past returned back to where they belong. Somewhere far away inside your head. You direct your eyes to the stage where the group is still performing. Their song is… soulful, but dead. Living, but hopeless. Inspiring, yet dreadful. It is its own antithesis. And it is beautiful but in a sad, tragic way. You can't look away.

 

While listening to her singing, the world has come to an end, everyone around has died and become ghosts, Skin Row is reduced to dust… and the only people left in this world are you and this band. Your own personal requiem. The alarm that the doomsday clock started to tick.

 

And then the song came to an end. You can hear some weak applause, but all of them are out of politeness, rather than awe.

 

"Thank you everyone for letting us play for you tonight. My name is Fang and we are the Silver Line. We are here every evening… until we die."

 

Her voice went from beautiful to the stuff of horror. A tired shriek of the half-dead corpse. The sigh of defeat. I… I need to…

 

You quickly pay for your order, and leave the place leaving a couple of pizza slices behind. You need to make a call, quickly. You reach out to the depths of your pocket and retrieve your flip phone. You open it and immediately go to the contacts menu. You scroll through a limited amount of saved numbers till you reach the one you want. "Commissioner Ripley". You press Call.

 

First ring. Then second. With each, you can feel your heart becoming faster and faster. Finally, you hear the click.

 

"Commissioner Ripley Aaron. Who's speaking?"

 

Ok, here is the plan of attack. Start with work as usual.

 

"H-hey boss, how's your evening?"

 

You can feel a heavy sigh on the other end. Unlike Janette's, this one does not annoy you… It makes you feel ashamed.

 

"Rando… One of the officer's greatest virtues is punctuality and the ability to prioritize their work. Remind me, were you tasked with anything today? Anything involving me?"

 

"I-I was supposed to call you regarding my latest arrest?"

 

"Good, and when did that arrest take place?"

 

Ah fuck, oh fuck, you should calm down.

 

"Around 17:45… Sir."

 

"Good, that means you hadn't forgotten to check the time when the main work was done… Now tell me, what time is it now?"

 

Wait? What time is it? You check your phone clock and… wow.

 

"21:05 sir"

 

"Great, since you are on a date then let me ask you this one thing… Why. Did. You. Ignored. Your. Order!?"

 

Oh sweet Raptor Jesus, oh god…

 

"Sir, there was a reason, I…"

 

"Drinking is not a reason, Rando."

 

Get yourself together! You still need to inform him…

"... Sir, permission to talk about something unrelated to the case!"

 

You say with extreme confidence. You can hear silence on the other end and then…

 

"Permission granted.".

 

He… he can sense that you are serious. Good. Now, say it. Tell him the news.

 

"Does the name Fang tell you something?"

 

Again silence. Something inside you tells you that you struck something. A nerve? No, you do not feel murderous intent. Instead, you feel… worried?

 

"What did you say?"

 

Ripley's voice sounds almost emotionless as if he still tries to figure out how to react. This is the moment where you lay your cards on the table.

 

"Female Pterodactyl. Silver hair. Amber-colored eyes. Feathered wings. Around 20 years old. Plays a guitar."

 

With each statement, you can sense the person on the other side becoming more tense. Don't torture him, tell him exactly what he wants to hear.

 

"I think I found her, Ripley. I found Lucy."

 

Again, silence… with each second passing you can feel tension brewing inside you. Was it the right thing to say? Do you need more evidence to support your claim? No, this is not detective work… You are helping your old friend, and you need to be as direct as possible. Now it is Ripley's turn to ask questions.

 

*CLICK*

 

Did… did he hang up? What? That was unexpected. Is he that shocked about the news? You thought he would… dunno, scream in joy or ask you a hundred questions. A moment later your phone rings. You pick it up.

 

"Yes, Ripley?"

 

You knew it was him, there was no need to check the number.

 

"... I went outside, didn't want Samantha to hear this. I hope this is not a joke, Rando!"

 

"Boss, you know me. I joke about getting shot, or me killing a perp or some other fucked up shit, but I would never joke about something like this!"

 

You can hear some whispers on the other side. You are certain you heard "thank god" there for a moment.

 

"Where?"

 

"Skin Row. She was playing with a band."

 

You can sense worry and fear on the other end of the phone… and plastic cracking under the pressure. Please, boss, don't break your phone on me.

 

"How… How is she?"

 

The voice is shaky.

 

"Is she alright?"

 

He tries to hide these feelings that fermented within him for all these years. Love, pride and shame. No matter how hard he tries though you can feel it. His heart, it speaks to you.

"I'll be honest, Rip… While she is physically alright, a bit thin though, it is her mind that worries me. She had that look…"

 

How one can describe it? Loneliness? Disappointment? No, you know that look too well. She is searching. For whom and for what? You can only guess "A reason to keep going".

 

You noticed that you've been silent for the whole minute. Ripley's patience is running thin.

 

"Where?"

 

"Hmmm?"

 

"Where is she exactly on the Skin Row? Tell me!"

 

Yeah, tell him… but why do you feel you shouldn't? By all accounts, it is technically a missing person case. Miss Lucy just one day upped and left Aaron's household. After that, she went off the radar for two whole years! Nobody knew where she was. Not her family, not her friends… It would be so easy to just tell Ripley where she is. But…

 

Don't tell them just yet… she wanders the ruins. She needs that solitude. There will be the one to travel the ruins with her. It won't be you, it won't be him… It will be someone else.

That thought… so far away yet so near. You know that sensation, from the old days, when you had no badge, no gun. Only the number thirteen plastered over your back. When you were lost. A warning from yourself. From the town. From the past.

 

"Rando? Are you there? Answer me now!"

 

The voice, like a meathook of reality, pulls you back to the surface, away from thoughts. The only thing that escapes your mouth, as if it was the most important word at this very moment. A word, which will launch a new chapter of your life… and also will bring you a lot of pain in the ass.

 

"No."

 

"No?"

 

"No, I won't tell you, Rips."

 

Anger, you can feel it emanating from the phone. But, you are already prepared, you know what to say. So say it.

 

"Because I don't want you both to be forever lost for each other."

 

"... What?"

 

"Ripley, I have known you for almost 20 years now. I know how you are, what you are… And I know you cannot solve this, you cannot come here. Not right now!"

 

His anger is… restrained. You can still feel frustration from him, but he listens. He rarely does, but at the moment you have his full attention.

 

Go at him, Sire, but pull your punches still.

 

"Ripley, I've seen her. I think I understand where she is right now. She walks amidst the ruins of her own decisions and she knows it. I don't know what exactly transpired before she ran away, but you cannot come here! You hear me?"

 

"... Why?"

 

Because you will fuck everything up.

 

"Because, Rips, you can't fix what has been done. Because if you appear whatever issues she has will come in wave all at once if she sees you… Because she will lose herself the moment you appear. I… I can sense it in her. She wants to be alone. You cannot save her right now, she needs to wish to be saved. Otherwise, you will lose her forever."

 

These words do not make any sense, Sire, but the audience is listening attentively. He… Understands them?

 

"Rando, have you had another one of those… visions? Or whatever you call these episodes of yours."

 

"Yes, I am sorry, it's just the moment I saw her something was triggered within me. Again, I am sorry."

 

"Do not apologize, Rando, I know how your mind operates sometimes."

 

This is the kindest way anyone has ever talked to you about your… issue. You need to help him!

 

"Rando, a part of me wants to strangle you for withholding information about my own daughter, but I know you won't lie to me. You are right… I was a horrible father. And I know that if I try to do everything my way, she will only push herself away from me further away, until… I don't want to think about it."

 

You do… oh the holster, your sweet mistress is singing a lullaby, inviting you to the peaceful sleep. Ain't the thought of… escape brings you a notion of tranquillity?

 

Positive thoughts, Rando, positive thoughts.

 

"Sorry, Rando, I didn't mean…"

 

His voice sounds almost fatherly to you. He knows what terrible memory he dug up with that train of conversation.

 

"It's fine, Rips. I understand you did not mean to bring THAT up."

 

A moment of silence. One good thing about knowing your boss well is that you learn to recognize that the method of their decision-making during work hours and free time is essentially the same. Ripley's commissioner brain was waving all the information he received to provide the most suitable solution. Finally, he sighs, and a decision has been reached.

 

"I know I should not do it but… I trust you with this one, Rando. You never once lied to me or tried to betray me. Even though you sound like a lunatic sometimes… I know you are right. I cannot fix her problems, she must do it herself. And if she needs my... Our help, she will come back home herself."

 

Acceptance is never easy. Give him something to hold on to.

 

"Well, I know where she will be every day from now on, so maybe… maybe I can look after her, ya kno. If the situation becomes dire, I can call up Skink and he will help us deliver her to you! Or maybe just help with cash, like, I dunno, hire her to work somewhere."

 

"I… I can't ask you of this."

 

"Rips, I want to do it. If not for you, I would have been… Ya kno. I want to repay you for your kindness and, well… I want to help her. Something about her reminds me of the past. I need to help her to set things right."

 

Silence. But there is no tension. He is… thankful?

 

"Well then, you better then look after her! If something happens to her under your watch, I will personally skin you alive."

 

There is no malice behind those words, but you can hear a smile.

 

"Not on my watch. I won't do anything to help her, but I will make sure that she finds herself. Have to call Skink still, ya kno, so that nobody would harass her on the streets."

 

"I don't trust that bastard, but if you vouch for him, then I can tolerate the thought."

 

"Cool! Now that is what I call Rock and Fucking Roll! I'll make sure your girl is fine and dandy… at least physically."

 

You've done it. This is the chance to repay all the debts, to clear your mind and maybe earn some sort of forgiveness…

 

You are now a hero of this play, Sire.

 

"Rips… I am sure she will figure everything out, I can sense it. And when she comes back she won't be alone. She won't be broken. She will be… herself."

 

"... thank you Rando… Still, you need some explaining to do about that incident with the earlier arrest! We have witness report of you stomping on the suspect's head and-"

 

"Yeah, cool, I will do that and now byyyyyye!"

 

*Click*

 

Well now. That was something. I guess for the foreseeable you have a side case piled up. But you don't feel annoyed, or angry, or confused. For the first time in years, your mind is clear. You have a goal, a thing to do. And who knows, maybe by the end, you finally will be free.

 

And the ruins will be merciful when they come for you.

 

***

 

It's been a year since you made a vow to look after Lucy Aaron, who was going by Fang now. You learned so many things about her in the process.

 

You became a regular customer at Pizza Time (which you have never done before), going there every weekday evening to lose yourself in the music performed by Fang. In a year she changed so much. Tattoos appeared on her arms, she completely shaved off her beautiful hair, her clothes became more and more tattered and her look became even more lost. Sometimes you were tempted to contact Ripley or Skink, but the voice of the town comforted you. "She needs more time", it said. And you listened. Observing her was… an experience. You made sure that she never noticed your presence, constantly shifting seats from evening to evening, sometimes disappearing in the dark corners of the restaurant, sometimes pretending(?) to be a drunkard and lying down on the table, hiding your face. But at one point you realized that you don't need to do that, her mind was always elsewhere. Good for you, terrible for her.

 

You learned where she lived, who her bandmates were, and what she did in her free time. It wasn't good. More often than not you've noticed her being drunk.

 

And not professionally drunk, like yours truly, Sire.

 

But more like a sad drunk, like she wasn't trying to forget but rather to relive the moments of the past. In that state, she was carelessly walking the streets of Skin Row. Thank Raptor Jesus, you called Skink on your first day of this side case, otherwise, she would've been stabbed or worse. She sometimes stops at a strange apartment building, an old one, it was borderline empty, almost abandoned… And just looking at the window somewhere above. As far as you know nobody lived there, it was always dark there. Maybe it was important once for her. Maybe someone was living there, someone important to her.

 

Suddenly, the picture of waves and steel comes to your mind. Day in and day out of awful conditions, tiresome existence. A man wallowing in his own cynicism and self-loathing, wishing to disappear… but that wish will never come.

 

You wonder what was that about. Maybe hangover, maybe another episode. Whatever, you've been looking into that apartment for a while and found only one resident in its recent history. Some unimportant guy who disappeared one day, almost unceremoniously. He was not kidnapped or killed, he just left. You wonder what he has to do with Fang…Lucy? Who is truly in front of you?

 

And just like that it is 201m2023. Weather? Still balls freezing. Skin Row became even worse in recent months, and both you and Fang reflect it. Man, what was the last time you shaved? Or spend at least one day sober? How many times have you been pulled into the sea of nothingness? Did… did you become worse? No, you are just becoming who you always meant to be.

 

A failure.

 

A beast.

 

A liar, Sire.

 

Casting these thoughts aside, you check your watch. Exactly 17:00. Time for the daily routine. You go to the Pizza Time place. Making your way through the streets of Skin Row you can hear children laughing in the distance. Sadistic, desperate laughter. Probably some youth gangs. Your trigger finger itches and as of late your holster feels more heavier. The spirit of the Skin Row is rotting. And you rot away with it.

 

You reach the Pizza Time pizzeria. You greet the owner, as usual, and order yourself the same thing as always. A couple of slices and two watered-down beers. The dim lights above reflect off your silver nylon jacket, making the mark XIII ever so more eye catchy. You are here, you are safe now, relax and enjoy the show.

 

Only this time something was different. Something new. You look around to confirm your suspicion…

 

Weren't you the only human in this place ever since you started coming here?

 

That's right, away from you in the dark corner of the pizzeria there was a human male, somewhere in his early 20s. He was impressively built, He was wearing a dark sweater and a beanie hat that was covering his bald head. Something about him screamed "This is important" to you. Something… something…

 

It is almost time, Sire, eyes on stage.

 

The band, "Silver Line" has entered the stage. It is a usual sight for you, you have been seeing it for the last year but now, there is something different about it. Your eyes wandered towards another human in the building and…

 

He was staring. He was staring at the lead singer. He was staring at Fang. His tired eyes were fully opened, his mouth slightly opened. His shoulders were shaking. His lips were moving, yet no sound came out, but you could recognize one word. You don't need to know how to read lips. You KNEW that word was important to him.

 

"Fang?"

 

This is the moment, my dear wanderer, the child of my streets. You must repair the broken stitch. Save them. Save me. And I will save you. 

[NOTES]
Sup. Decided to add a couple of references in this chapter for fun. Anyway, hope you will enjoy this chapter.