As the pink rays of morning carved up the horizon, I turned into a somewhat dilapidated StrandCo gas station. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, tiny blue moths flickering in and out of existence in the pale light cast across the cracked pavement. Unflattering, blue-tinted incandescence bathed me as I pulled towards the pumps.

My 1991 Pontiac Tempest sputtered and vibrated ominously as I killed the engine, as she was offended by the interruption of my long trip across the desolate wildlands of Western Reaches that stretched between Acadia and NUSA.

"Just a little further, we're almost there," I yawned, patting the dashboard with an affectionate smile. "Then you can rest... For a day. Then I'll need you to drive me to school, so no dying on me."

The rusted Pontiac was my most glorious acquisition, procured from old man Jeremiah Elkin who lived three streets down from my parents. I got her for nine hundred dollars—every cent scraped and saved by working overtime and overnight shifts at Bowser's Basement, a dogfood packaging factory that smelled like death and paid like it too. I had no clue how Pradavarian dogs could tolerate that sort of junk packaged, plastic wrapped food that was 90% bones sometimes featuring bits of processed meat.

Eleven months of shoveling smelly meat byproducts into industrial grinders, coming home reeking of entrails and preservatives was for a greater cause, now permitting me mobility. While other kids got state-of-the-art DungeonRunners, sleek Gurrwulf Industries electrogravitic Vans, or Strand Gliders gifted by their parents, I sweated and saved for a mundane, mostly steel car that consumed gas like it was going out of style and broke down roughly every hundred miles. Still, she was mine, which was more than I could say for most things in my life.

I checked my wallet—forty-three dollars and some change. Enough for gas to reach Ferguson and maybe a coffee if I was feeling somewhat extravagant. Not for the first time, I cursed my brother and his talent for manipulation.

The golden child. The special prodigy. The one with actually functional, cherished delving skills.

I pulled up my stats with a sigh, the familiar silver text of Systemfall materializing in my field of vision.

| Name: Alec Benoit Foster

| Species: Human | Level: 3 | Core Affinity: Reconstitution | Health: 67/100%

| Strength: 14 | Agility: 4 | Dexterity: 12 | Vitality: 36 | Charisma: 9 | Foresight: 2 | Intelligence: 37 | Wisdom: 30

| Reconstitution: 0/100% | Depictomancy: 4/100% | Syntropic Fusion: 17/100%

Level 3 at eighteen years old, when most serious delvers hit Level 5 by sixteen. And my shitty skills?

Reconstitution—the ability to heal from near-fatal wounds, which sounded amazing in theory but was practically useless in my case. It sat at a glorious 0%, as it had for three weeks now.

Depictomancy—the ability to draw pictures that became animated, even more useless.

Syntropic Fusion—the ability to make generic, low end artifacts from random magical junk that came apart in a day or less.

I still remember the Adventurer Guild evaluator's face when she tested my mana regeneration rate.

Ms. Thornhill, a stern-faced pradavarian owl with reading glasses perched on her sharp beak, had stared at her measuring crystal for a full minute before looking up at me with a look of pity.

"Congratulations, Mr. Foster," she'd said, scribbling something on my evaluation form. "You have the slowest mana reload rate I've ever seen in a human. About one percent per month for your primary skill... umm... Reconstitution, if we're being generous."

"Is... is that bad?" I'd asked, already knowing the answer.

"Hrmkhh," she'd cleared her throat, "You see, Mr. Foster, most regenerate at least one to ten percent per day. Professional delvers regenerate their skill mana bar in a day or less. Your brother, for example, regenerates approximately forty seven percent of his primary skill per hour." She'd handed me my certification card with a sigh. "Perhaps consider a career in tax accounting?"

So here I was, with skills that recharged so slowly they were practically decorative. I could survive one deadly encounter once a year or so, assuming I didn't get completely obliterated and devoured.

Not exactly the foundation of a promising dungeon-delving career. Unfortunately for me, a person's value in life was decided based on the effectiveness of their skills and mana reload rate.

"The perfect skill for repeatedly failing," my father had said once during a particularly nasty argument. "At least you'll survive long enough to recognize your mistakes."

My brother, Damian Foster, had been blessed with Pyrokinesis—the skill that manifested and controlled fire. Flashy, powerful, and perfect for clearing dungeons and impressing girls at pubs. Plus it recharged in minutes, not months. The cosmic unfairness of it all never ceased to irritate me.

I climbed out of the car and stretched, my joints popping in protest after hours of driving.

The gas station was one of those ancient places that hadn't been updated since the 60s. A faded sign proclaimed "LAST STOP BEFORE HIGHWAY 69"—a warning more than an advertisement. Everyone knew Highway 69 was a death trap, a space-time looped dungeon that trapped unwary travelers in infinite cycles draining people's levels and skills.

I'd just finished filling my tank and was fiddling with the old serpentine belt that was threatening to fly off the engine again, when the rumble of motorcycle engines cut through the pre-dawn quiet. A group of five bikes pulled into the station, their riders wobbling slightly as they parked. Even from here, I could hear their wild laughter and slurred words.

Great. Drunk pradavarians. Just what my morning needed.

They dismounted with varying degrees of grace—an eclectic group of female prads I'd never seen before, but who had "trouble" written all over them. I kept my head down, focusing on tightening the damn belt, but it was already too late. I'd been spotted.

"Heeeeyyy tharr pink tater!" A cheetah pradavarian's voice carried across the gas station, slurred but enthusiastic. "Look, girlsss! A human! A cute, squishy little human!"

I pretended not to hear, hoping against hope they might lose interest. No such luck. The sound of boots and paws staggering toward me grew louder.

"Hey! Pay attenshnnn! I'm talkin' to you!" the cheetah said, poking me hard in the back. "Wass yooorrr naaaame, taterrr?"

I snapped the car hood down and turned slowly, forcing a neutral expression.

The gray cheetah swayed slightly, her violet-blue eyes unfocused and drifting slightly. Her leather jacket covered in metal studs and magisteel runes was unzipped, revealing a tank top with "SKID MARKS" emblazoned across it, accompanied by a rather crude tire track graphic and a little heart atop of the i. A neon green mohawk sprouted between her spotted ears, clashing horrendously with her silver and white fur pattern.

"Nice jacket," I offered, foolishly hoping that a complement would get her off my back.

"Right?!" She beamed, spinning around to show off the back, where a poorly drawn cartoonish cheetah on a motorcycle skidded to leave a mark in the shape of a middle finger. "I designed and reinforced it myself! I'm Captain Adler! Pack Alpha of the most badasshh crew this side of the Supersshhtore and Highway Sixshhty Neaaain! THE SKID MARKS!"

She punctuated this by attempting to snap her fingers and failed to do so due to how drunk she was.

"Oh! And that's TurboFluff," she declared, ignoring my disinterested expression. She pointed across me at a lynx girl who suddenly appeared sitting on the hood of my car, methodically licking a half-eaten, extra-deep fried corn dog. "That's Bark-n-Bite and Tequila Sunrise—" two wolves laughing like hyenas, one of whom was now attempting to drink from the gas pump. "And that's Lieeeutenant Donutz aka Loops!" The cheetah waved a hand at a black and dark gray fox in a leather jacket with red stripes.

The fox smirked at me, dark gray whiskers twitching across from a dark nose. She seemed to be the most sober of the group and had the least beat up bike. The fox gave me a predatory once-over with her gray eyes while adjusting brass knuckles that spelled out "FOX-U" across her fingers.

"Riiiight," I said, calculating the distance to my car door. "And I was just leaving, so—"

"N-uhh-uhhhhh! You ain't goin' nowhere withooout tellin' me yo name, human-tater!" Captain Adler declared.

I pursed my lips, really not wanting to dig myself any deeper into a conversation with the biker gang.

"Shy are we?" Adler wobbled. "Loops, help me out, he's bein' deifffficult. Wass hiss naeeem?"

Donutz stepped closer to me and poked me in the side, her shoulder-length, jet-black hair swaying in the breeze from the distant mountains. "Identify!"

"Alec Benoit Foster," Her eyes ignited with silver as she looked me up and down as if I was a piece of meat. "Level 3. Reconstitution, hum? What's that?" She burst into laughter as her gray eyes flashed silver-violet. "Holy shit, girls! We found ourselves a real cockroach!"

"Whats dat you-yyuu mean?" The cheetah blinked at the fox. "Howsh he a corkroackshhh?"

"My Astral hook says his skill is mega super rare, basically he can't die," Donutz snickered, leaning against my car and blocking the door handle with her behind.

"What, like legit can't die? At all? What's the downside?" TurboFluff asked.

"The downside is that it reloads slowly," I said. "Now if you don't mind I'd like to get back on the road."

"Oh? Wherrrr you headin'?" Adler asked.

"I'm headed to Ferguson," I said, any hope that I would be let go without being assaulted fading away like a distant dream.

"Fergushhnnon?!" Adler spat the word like it tasted foul. "Why the hell would a human want to go to lizard-ville?"

"Lizardville?" I asked, inching towards my car door.

"The Strand syndicate owns that whole damn town," TurboFluff interjected. "Those scaly knobfolds think they're effin' royalty!"

Bark-n-Bite growled, a low rumble that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. "My cousin from Iona tried sellin' fried shrimps in her fast food van there without getting approval or somesheet from the raptors. Three days later, she wasssss found floating in Lake Eerie with her fur ripped off. 'Accident,' 'ey called eet. She had to spend like four grand on a healer! Couldn't even memba' what happened to her!"

"Those raptor beerches run everything," Adler affirmed. "They think they own the fooking air you breathe there. You go to Ferguson, little dum' human tater, you basically become raptor n' co property soon as ya cross dattt city obllishhkk ward line."

"They do love collecting humans," the fox added with a sneer. "You could end up as an exotic pet for the Strand daughters if you got a rare skill like that Reconstitution of yours. Wanna be in a pretty, gold collar serving drinks to lizards your entire life?"

"Serving drinks?" Bark-n-Bite laughed. "As if! If he can't die they'll totes use him as target practice at the arrow range or make him fetch golf balls while they aim for his face!"

I frowned.

"Ya, dude," Tequila Sunrise added. "Turn that rustbucket of yours around and go anywhere else. Anywharrr! The Strands eat little humans like you for breakfast—literally sometimes." She burst into drunken snickering at her own dumb joke.

"I appreciate the warning," I said, "but my grandfather is expecting me and—"

Adler's muscular hand shot out, gripping my shoulder tightly. "Grandfather, eh? Pffff. No. You know what? No! We're doing you a favor. No human should be in raptorrrr territory. You're coming with us instead!"

More hysterical laughter.

"You acshulley wan' to keep this one, Addie? A level thpffrree?! For realsies?" TurboFluff laughed so hard, she fell off my car hood, dropping her corn dog. "Shit!" She caught it in the air a second before the snack hit the ground, her figure blurring as she moved with the ludicrous speed of a dungeon delver.

"Why not?" Addie declared, left hand claws digging even harder into my jacket and making me wince. "I ain't ever heard of a Reconstitushhhion. S'ounds rare n' sheet'. You're like a little cockroach, like Donutz says, ya? Squish, squish, but you keepss coming back?"

She demonstrated this by poking me repeatedly in the chest, each "squish" punctuated with another jab of her claw.

"Let go of me," I ground out.

"Nugh-huh," Addie's expression changed, her drunken playfulness taking on a more predatory, jagged blade edge. "Y'know," she slurred, "I think I'm gonna claimmm you."

I squinted at her.

"Yeah. I'ma claim. Yooou." She repeated slowly, as if I were particularly dense. "My own cute, adrrkable fetchling. You're perfect! Low level, so you can't fight back much. But you'll never really die! Perfect toy for when I'm bored! Humanshh break so easily! But you can't break cus you're immortal, n' sheet, raaight?"

Before I could say anything else to rebuff her advances, Addie thrust her right hand down the front of her leather pants, digging around for a moment with a look of drunken concentration. When she extracted her hand, her fingers glistened with what I absolutely refused to mentally catalog as anything other than "pradavarian moisture."

"Hold still frrrr me, cuuutie," she slurred, going down on one knee and then proceeded to smear her fingers directly across my face, drawing glistening streaks from my forehead to my chin. I suspected that it probably smelled something awful, but had no idea how awful exactly on the account that my brother 'accidentally' obliterated my sense of smell a few months ago by using me as target practice for his spellchain experiment.

"There!" the cheetah declared proudly, wiping her fingers on my shirt for good measure. "Now any prad knob who sniffs you will know you're my human! Ke ke ke. Come on, leave that junk car here, you can ride in front of me like a good toy boy. We goin' Superstore delvin'! Trrrstt me—you'll love eet!"

"I am NOT your human," I shoved her away, heading for my car door. "Piss off."

Addie's eyes widened, then narrowed dangerously. "Did you just push me?" The slur in her voice had reduced somewhat, replaced by an annoyed growl.

"I did," I confirmed. "And I'm not going anywhere with you drunks!"

"Oooooh," the gathered prads chorused, like teenagers witnessing a schoolyard challenge.

"Girls," Addie said, her green mohawk swaying, "I think our new pet needs some obedience training."

My hand slid into my pocket, fingers wrapping around a small plastic bottle I always kept there. As a human in a world full of pradavarians, I'd learned a few survival tricks. One of the best: pocket ground pepper. Strong enough to overwhelm any prad's sensitive nose and temporarily disable their tracking ability, especially those in cycle who relied heavily on scent.

I waited until Addie took one step toward me, then whipped out the pepper container, flicked off the cap with my thumb, and flung a cloud of fine black pepper directly into her face.

The effect was immediate and spectacular. The gray cheetah's eyes bulged, her pupils contracting to pinpoints. For one frozen moment, she didn't react—then she erupted into the most violent sneezing fit I'd ever witnessed. Each sneeze sent her mohawk quivering, her entire body jerking with the force of it.

"What the—ACHOO!—fuck did you—ACHOO!—you little—ACHOO!" She couldn't even complete a sentence between explosive sneezes.

The other prads stared in momentary shock, giving me the opening I needed. As Donutz was still blocking my car door with her fox butt and black tail, I bolted past the incapacitated cheetah, making a beeline for the gas station's mini-mart, hoping to draw them in and confuse their senses once they were inside.

Drunk as they were, pradavarians still possessed inherent agility that put humans to shame. Donutz was on me in seconds, tackling me from behind and sending us both crashing into a display of windshield washer fluid.

"Got ya!" she crowed triumphantly, as blue liquid soaked through my clothes.

I grabbed the nearest canister, capped it open and splashed it into her face, making her cry out. The distraction gave me enough time to scramble out of her black claws and rush toward the automotive section.

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As I rounded the corner, I yanked a small plastic can from my belt loop—a pocket fogger I'd bought from a street vendor in Memphis after one too many pradavarian encounters. Advertised as "instant privacy for humans," it was essentially a miniature smoke bomb that released a cloud of harmless but very dense, smelly vapor. Perfect for confusing prad senses.

"Get back here!" Addie barked somewhere behind me, her voice still thick with sneezes.

"He's heading for aisle three!" TurboFluff shouted.

I pulled the pin on the fogger and tossed it behind me, diving behind a chip display as thick white smoke billowed out, filling the store. Prad vision relied heavily on motion detection and thus the smelly smoke complicated their tracking.

"What the... Aghgh?! I can't see shit!" Bark-n-Bite yelped, tripping on something.

"Use your nose, idiot!" Tequila Sunrise shot back.

"I can't! This shit stinks something awful!"

"Then use your hearing and Astral sight! Slayer!" Adler barked, sounding like she walked into a shelf that toppled it over.

I crawled quietly toward the back of the store, reaching for another item from my jacket—a small electronic device that looked like a key fob but was actually an effective pradavarian deterrent. Another street purchase. The fob emitted a high-frequency sound imperceptible to humans but intensely deafening and annoying to prad ears. I'd only used it a few times before, to escape an aggressive raccoon prad girl who kept following me home from school trying to 'claim' me.

I pressed the button and heard immediate results—howls of discomfort from all directions.

"Ack! My ears!" The fox screeched nearby.

Using the distraction, I grabbed the first potential weapon I could find—a steel snow brush with an ice scraper on the end. Not exactly fearsome, but marginally better than my human hands.

I also pulled a small can of wasp spray from my jacket pocket, holding it in my left hand.

Bark-n-Bite appeared through the smoke, brandishing a tire iron. "Here, roachy, roachy," she taunted, swinging it lazily.

I ducked under her swing and swung the metal snow brush into her exposed shins with as much force as I could muster. Pradavarian or not, certain anatomical weak points remained universal. She doubled over with a high-pitched yelp. Before she could recover, I sprayed the wasp killer directly into her face.

"GAH! MY EYES!" she shrieked, dropping to all fours and pawing desperately at her face. "Gfffuuuukk it buuuurns!"

"He hit Barky!" TurboFluff gasped from somewhere in the smoke.

"Get him you useless knobs!" Addie ordered.

I didn't let myself get caught.

I darted between aisles, swinging my pathetic snow brush at any prad shins that got too close. They pursued with drunken focus, knocking over displays, slipping on spilled washer fluid, and occasionally crashing into each other when their blind and deaf coordination failed them.

I managed to land a solid hit on TurboFluff's shoulder with the ice scraper, which earned me a retaliatory swipe that tore my shirt and jacket and left four parallel claw marks across my side. Donutz cornered me by the refrigerated drinks, but I grabbed a bottle of soda, shook it violently, and sprayed it in her face when she lunged.

She howled, failing to grab onto me.

As my enemies seemed to be effectively confused and blinded, I made a break for the door. Thankfully, my pocket fogger was still pumping smoke through the store. For a moment, I thought I might actually escape, but then I heard Addie's voice, suddenly clear of any slurring.

"Shadowstep."

The word rang with power, her delver skill activating. Then she was simply gone from behind me—only to reappear directly in front of me, blocking my path to the door.

"Cleverrrr human," she grinned. "But now I'm mildly annoyed with ya."

I aimed my wasp spray at her face, but just as I pressed the nozzle, she vanished again, the spray hitting empty air. A split second later, pain exploded in my back as claws raked across my spine. I stumbled forward, nearly falling.

"Too slow," she whispered in my ear, appearing at my left side.

I swung at her, but she was already gone. The other prads had gathered at the edges of the now clearing smoke, forming a loose circle around me.

"You made this much more fun than expected," Addie's voice echoed, seemingly from two separate locations. "But playtime's overrr. Tek - blind him!"

Tequila Sunrise raised her hands, which began to glow with an amber light. "Sensory Override," she intoned.

Instantly, my vision blurred, colors and shapes becoming indistinct. Sounds stretched and warped, and my sense of balance vanished entirely. I staggered, nearly throwing up as my perception of the world wobbled and twisted, my inner ears going berserk.

"My turn," a blurry Donutz grinned, pulling what looked like a small red candy from her pocket. "Speed Multiplier," she said, throwing the candy into her mouth and cracking it with her canines. Red energy coursed over her body.

She vanished from where she stood and swatted at me a few times, sending the wasp spray and snow brush flying from my stinging hands.

Her next kick and my scrambled senses sent me crashing into a shelf instead. Disoriented and concussed, I fumbled in my pocket for anything else that might help. My fingers closed around my last resort—a small electric stunner, barely enough to take down a normal prad, but likely useless against delvers with active skills.

TurboFluff circled me. "Look at him flailing," she giggled. "Like watching a baby try to fight."

Addie's laughter came from somewhere on my left, a clawed paw swatting at my jacket and tearing it into shreds.

I lunged toward the sound of her voice, swinging my stunner wildly. By sheer luck, it connected with something solid. There was a satisfying crackle of electricity and a surprised yelp.

"Ouch! You little shit!" Addie materialized fully, one hand clutching her side where I'd tagged her with the stunner. "That fookin' hurt!"

"There's more where that came from," I bluffed, brandishing the stunner like it was a deadly weapon instead of the pradavarian equivalent of a bee sting.

"Enough games," Addie growled. "Donutz, hold him!"

Before I could react, the fox flashed behind me, her prad strength making my struggles useless as she pinned my arms behind my back with her claws. The stunner clattered to the floor.

"You put up a good fight, little tater," Addie said, approaching me with slow deliberation of a victorious villain. "Most of your kind would have been curled up crying by now. I'm… impressed."

"Ohh, someone's actually impressed Addie," TurboFluff cackled. "Das' imprrressive!"

"Yes. However, hitting your new Alpha is a big no, no," the cheetah tisked. "So a small lesson in obedience is due."

What followed was a methodical, vicious takedown. Addie started with my face, her claws carefully avoiding my eyes but leaving bloody furrows across my cheeks. Bark-n-Bite, recovered from the wasp spray, focused on my torso, each punch carrying the force of a sledgehammer against my ribs.

TurboFluff seemed particularly interested in shredding my clothes, her claws reducing my jacket, shirt and jeans to tattered rags hanging from my limbs. My outfit didn't survive her swips for very long, strips of fabric fluttering to the floor.

"Nice abs," she commented, dragging a claw down my exposed stomach. "Shame about the rest of you."

Tequila Sunrise stood back, maintaining her Sensory Override skill, ensuring that each blow and slice was accompanied by disorienting waves of confusion that made it hard to escape the fox's arms.

The worst part wasn't the pain—though there was plenty of that. It was the methodical, almost casual way they dismantled me. They weren't in a hurry. They weren't even particularly angry anymore. This was entertainment for them, a diversion from their drunken road trip to the Infinite Superstore dungeon.

"You know the problem with humans?" Adler asked, landing a particularly nasty kick to my side. "Humans are so fragile, but you never learn your place. Always thinking you can outsmart us!"

"To be fair," one of them grunted, "he nearly did. That pepper trick got you down for a bit."

"For a bit doesn't fuking count," Addie replied, grabbing a handful of my hair and jerking my head back. "When you're dealing with pro delvers, human, your little tools and toys don't mean shit. We bend reality. You just... break. Come on, beg for mercy. Show me your place."

Another blow, this time to my stomach, drove all of the air from my lungs. I would have doubled over if Donutz wasn't tightly holding me upright.

Yep. Drunk prads with delver skills. A human's worst nightmare. I thought blearily as I was kicked, clawed and punched.

I refused to beg and simply glared at them, blinking sweat and blood out of my stinging eyes. It was possibly the stupidest choice I could have picked since looking at a prad without bowing meant you challenged their authority. But, I refused to look down in submission, refused to break as Adler encouraged.

I was already kicked out of my home, at the end of my rope. This victory, however tiny, wasn't for me—it was for all humans oppressed and forced into collared servitude by the pradavarian corps in their territories.

By the time they finished, I was a bloody, swollen mess of bruises and claw marks. My clothes hung in random tatters, barely preserving my modesty. The fox finally released me, and I crumpled to the floor like a marionette with its strings snapped off, not able to even curl into a defensive ball. Even so, I glared at them with a single functional eye.

"Girls," Addie said, wiping blood—my blood—from her claws, "Time to take out the trash!"

The lynx and wolf hoisted me up, one grabbing my arms, the other my legs. They dragged me outside, heading behind the shop and laughing. I didn't bother struggling at this point; everything hurt too much.

"One," they began counting, swinging me like a battering ram.

"Two," Addie joined in, laughing loudly.

"THREE!"

I sailed through the air in an inglorious arc, landing with a squishy thud in the large, metal dumpster behind the gas station. The impact knocked what little breath I had left out of my lungs, leaving me wheezing amidst coffee grounds and mysterious sticky substances.

"Well, that was rather fun," Addie's voice drifted over the edge of the dumpster.

"Wait, wait! Why are we throwing him out? What about your claim?" Donutz asked, sounding very frantic for some reason.

"Cus' he smells like blood, pepper, smoke and windshield washer fluid now. Ugh. I might 'ave overdone it," Captain Adler commented. "S'ides we're on a schedule. The Superstore silver entry ticket is gon' expire if we don't use it for today's delve. We gotta train him up a beeet and raise that low-ass level - I don't want my human-tater eaten in the dungeon by a staple spider. We'll get him on our way back after he cleans himself up n' shit. Loops, tag him as our property!"

"Mkay," Donutz bent into the dumpster, looming over me. She bit her finger and scribbled something on my forehead. "Tag target! Astral binding!" She drew a jagged, sideways number eight on her own forehead and then vanished for a moment. In another minute her head appeared once again over the dumpster edge. "Dagaz Rune, triangle formation, absolute, unbreakable bond! Condition..."

She muttered something under her breath, a word of power that sounded like it came from three eldritch mouths at the same time. Reality around her wobbled sideways for a split second with an ocean of violet stars.

A blue-violet hexagrammic spiral shaped like a number eight inside an eight-pointed star ignited on her index finger and a violet spell struck me in the head, temporarily blinding me.

[Personal Status Added: Property of the SKID MARKS biker gang. Dagaz-Bound of Lieutenant Donutz and Captain Adler.] Violet-blue sparks danced across my eyes.

There was a rustling sound, then Addie's spotted gray face appeared over the edge of the dumpster. "Oh, right. Almost forgot."

She hoisted herself up, balanced precariously on the edge, and pulled down her pants. I got a view of her naked ass and crotch and quickly closed my eyes as hot liquid splashed across my chest and face, mixing with the blood from my numerous cuts and seeping into open wounds with a stinging sensation that made me hiss.

"There!" she declared proudly, zipping back up. "Now he's officially max-claimed!"

I lay there in shocked silence, struggling to process the absolute degradation. Being beaten was one thing—I'd had my share of prad beatings over the years.

But this... this was something else entirely. I felt something inside me shrivel and die—some final fragment of dignity or self-respect that had somehow survived eighteen years of being human in a pradavarian-filled world.

"Guys? Can we go now?" Bark-n-Bite whined. "I need hangover food."

"Yeah, yeah," Addie agreed. "Let's hit the Superstore. I need new gloves anyway. These have blood all over them now." Her head appeared over the dumpster as she winked at me. "Heal up' with yo skeel, make yourself look presentable n' shit. I'll be back for ya tonight. Don't go to Ferguson. Just hang around here, ye?"

A few very crumpled dollar bills rained down on me. "Here. Buy yourself something nice to wear. Got it? Good. See ya later, Alec-tater!"

The roar of motorcycles signaled their departure, leaving me alone in my fragrant new accommodations, covered in blood, washer fluid, trash and pradavarian bodily fluids. I lay there for a moment, cataloging my injuries—probably broken ribs, definitely a split lip, rapidly swelling eye, various claw marks across my chest and arms, and a dignity so thoroughly decimated it might never recover.

"Story of my fucking life," I muttered, struggling to sit up among the trash.

It took nearly fifteen minutes of painful effort to haul myself out of the large dumpster, using an old, half-busted crate as a step. Each movement sent fresh waves of agony through my battered body. I limped toward the gas station bathroom, dripping blood across the concrete.

Inside the mini-mart, an old bulldog pradavarian stood behind the counter, methodically mopping up the mess from my chase. He looked up as I staggered in, leaving bloody footprints on his freshly mopped floor, and gave me a once-over with bloodshot eyes that had seen it all.

"Bathroom?" I croaked.

He jerked a thumb toward the back. "Key's on the hook."

I shuffled over, grabbed the key attached to a massive wooden block, and continued my painful journey toward the bathroom. Before I reached it, the old dog called out.

"Hey, human."

I paused, turning slowly to face him.

"You smell… marked," he observed unnecessarily.

"Thanks for the insight," I managed, spitting out a cracked tooth.

He reached under the counter and tossed something at me—I flinched but managed to catch it. A first aid kit, old but serviceable.

"Thirty bucks," he grunted.

I squinted at him.

"Expensive, ye, but there's a marking eraser dry shampoo in that kit," he said. "Smells like she got you real good, it'll get most of it off you."

"Thanks," I dropped all of Adler's crumpled twenty dollar bills on the counter, not bothering to count them. "For the brush and any damage. I'll grab some clothes too."

"S'aight, I got delver insurance. Not your first rodeo, is it, kid?" he asked, eyeing me with mild interest. "Pepper, pocket fogger, high-frequency emitter and a wasp spray, was it?"

I shrugged as I grabbed clothes from the shelves that were approximately my size, wincing as pain shot through my shoulders.

"Got most of them in Memphis," I muttered. "Street vendors."

"Smart," he nodded approvingly. "That stuff works on regular prads. But didn't help much against a pack of delvers, did it?"

"Almost did," I said defensively.

"Almost gets you in dumpsters." He chuckled, a phlegmy sound deep in his chest. "Girls are nothing but trouble, but prad girls?" He shook his head. "They'll chew you up and spit you out, then come back for seconds. My advice? Stick to human girls when you get to Ferguson. Less exciting, sure, but you'll live longer."

I shrugged.

"And kid?" he called after me. "Whatever you're running from? Probably better than the town you're heading to."

"Ain't nowhere for me to get back to," I said. "They... uhh... tagged me magically too. Any idea how to get that off me?"

"Hrmmm," the old bulldog rubbed his chins. "Anyone with a Binder-tagger-skill or a nullifier scrubber might be able remove such, but it def' won't be cheap."

"Ain't got much in terms of funds," I sighed.

"The Hare Krishna temple in Ferguson might do it for free," he added. "But… you will have to do some service for the temple. Nothing too straining from what I recall and they do provide room and board and one of them orange robes to wear. I used to volunteer there back in the day."

"Thanks for the advice," I muttered, pushing open the bathroom door.

I locked the bathroom door behind me and finally faced myself in the grimy mirror. The sight was even worse than I'd imagined. My face was a mess of blood and bruises, one eye swollen completely shut. Four parallel claw marks ran from my left temple to my jaw. My chest was a canvas of bruises and lacerations, some still oozing blood, some new, but many others old.

I spent the next hour cleaning up as best I could, then bandaging myself up using the entire first aid kit and still having wounds left over. I dumped what remained of my clothes into a trash bin.

The hoodie I grabbed from the shop turned out to be a dark gray and orange tourist-trap garish one, proclaiming "I SURVIVED HIGHWAY 69!" in neon green letters with a holographic infinity sign on the back that turned into a number eight depending on the angle. Fitting, considering I hadn't even reached the highway yet.

Back in my car, I sat motionless, trying to decide what to do next. I could turn around, head back South to human territories with my metaphorical tail between my legs. Try to get by without finishing school, maybe find a part time job, apprentice under a human tradesman. Or I could continue to Ferguson, find a grandfather I've never talked to, go to where the raptor mafia awaited which was apparently far worse than the biker gang.

Neither option seemed particularly appealing.

I pulled out my cracked-screen phone, thumbing through Pradstagram to distract myself from the pain and humiliation. I told myself I was just checking out potential classmates at Ferguson High, but that was a lie. I was hiding in the digital world because the real one had just kicked my ass.

I slowly began to scroll through the #FergusonHigh feed.

A raptor girl with emerald and violet feathers and amber-gold eyes. She gave a thumbs up to the camera and then pulled out a delving sword. Flashing from one spot to another she obliterated several massive trees, making them careen sideways. Meh. Any idiot can slice shit with a magic sword. I blessed her with claws down and scrolled lower.

A male raptor with crimson-tipped feathers posing in front of Ferguson High's imposing stone archway. His caption read: "New TA of Theoretical Dungeon Mechanics! Just transferred from T-dot back home! Watch out freshmen, this semester's gonna be BRUTAL #RaptorPride #StrandFamilyLegacy"

The post had over 700 likes and comments ranging from congratulatory to outright fawning.

Next came a group photo of what appeared to be the Ferguson Firestorm—the school's elite delving team. Seven raptors in matching black and gold hexmesh uniforms, surrounded by trophies and medals. Their stats hovered above them in holographic displays—not a single one below Level 30.

"Regional delver champions for the fifth year running! #UnstoppableForce #FearTheRaptors" read the caption. My finger hesitated over a video post from someone named ScarletStrand. The thumbnail showed a luxurious bedroom where a single curtain that probably cost more than my entire life.

I tapped the ▶️ button.

A female raptor with emerald and blue feathers and gleaming gold eyes appeared on screen, lounging on a king-sized bed draped in silks. Diamond studs glittered along the ridge of her snout. Behind her, a floor-to-ceiling window revealed a panoramic view of a lavish park.

"Sup, noobs and nooblettes!" she chirped, her voice melodious despite the predatory glint in her eyes. "Just a quick note to ya all that Daddy's hosting the annual Strand Summer's End Soirée this weekend. Invitation only, of course, but I might be persuaded to sneak in a few lucky fans." She winked at the camera. "Drop your stats in the comments if you think you're worthy!"

The comments section was flooded with pradavarians posting their levels, skills, and desperate pleas for inclusion. A few brave humans had tried their luck too, only to be mercilessly mocked by other commenters.

Great. All of the signs pointed that the raptor mafia was quite real and not just the drunken ramblings of the local biker gang.

I threw claws down at the raptor girl and scrolled past ads for dungeon gear and local Ferguson businesses, most prominently featuring "Strand Enterprises: Making Strand Gliders and magitek weapons now in collaboration with Gurrwulf Industries! Invest in the future!"

More scrolling revealed a candid shot of what appeared to be Ferguson High's campus quad. Raptors and dogs dominated the frame, lounging on manicured lawns or strutting along stone pathways. A handful of other pradavarian species could be spotted—mostly wolves and foxes, with the occasional feline and bird. Humans were few and far between, and those present seemed to be keeping to themselves, heads down, moving quickly between buildings.

Just peachy, the humans seemed to be a minority in town.

Driving back to mostly human territory suddenly seemed like a better option. But then again, the damned bikers would likely chase me down if I didn't get rid of their magic tag soon."First day vibes #FergusonH #FreshmanYear" The caption was from a young hyena pradavarian who looked equal parts excited and terrified.

I paused on a post from the Ferguson High official account showing a massive library interior with soaring ceilings and countless shelves of books. "The Strand Family Memorial Library remains open 24/7 for all your study needs! #AcademicExcellence #StrandScholarship"

I was about to give up when my thumb encountered a picture of a dog standing in front of what looked like a 50's Atomic Punk cafe. A female black and white husky pradavarian with striking blue eyes and white markings on her forehead that resembled angel wings. The same girl I obsessed over last night.

The post was a video tagged: "A new song for you out there! Keep going! Don't give up! ~Ness."

I plugged my phone into the car speakers and clicked on play. Her eyes struck me, my heartbeat accelerating. Her voice came out, soft and haunting and resonant.

"Beaten down but never broken, Rising from the ashes, spoken Words that heal and guide your way, Sunlight breaks before the day.

Don't let darkness be your master, Though the road seems filled with disaster, Keep your heart on what's ahead, Focus forward, never dread."

I stared at the screen, mesmerized by her voice. There was something about the melody, something that seemed to speak directly to my current situation—beaten, humiliated, but still moving forward. Her voice synced too well with the music. Was her singing some kind of a skill? It sounded too perfect, too wholesome.

"In this world of teeth and claws, Where might makes right and strength makes laws, Find the courage deep within, To lose it all and still to win."

I gave her a paws up and then I saw the tags.

#Nessy_Whitepaw_music #AtomicCafe #Bestchocolate_latte! #FergusonShops #Will'sWheels #Autorepair_cheap!

With a sigh, I started the engine.

The song was obviously not about getting beaten up and claimed by asshole bikers, but instead was some kind of cheeky marketing campaign for the local shops.

The Tempest protested but eventually rumbled to life. Ferguson was still a few hours away. The sun had risen blinding me as I pulled back onto highway 70, my bruised body protesting every bump in the road.

I didn't know what awaited me in Ferguson. Haughty raptors. Classes I was woefully unprepared for. A grandfather I barely knew. But at that moment, bloody and claimed, I figured it couldn't possibly be worse than what I was leaving behind.

Or at least, that's what I told myself as I accelerated down the empty highway, the gas station shrinking in my rear-view mirror like a bad memory that refused to fade.

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