Where the Predators Prowl [Bloom Book 2] - Chapter 1: Claimed

I pulled into the run-down gas station just as the first hint of dawn cracked the horizon. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting an unflattering glow across the weathered concrete. My ancient Pontiac Tempest coughed dramatically as I killed the engine, as if offended I'd interrupted its journey.

"Just a little further, we’re almost there," I muttered, patting the dashboard affectionately. "Then you can rest."

The car had been my pride and joy, purchased from Old Man Jeremiah two streets from where my parents lived for $900—every penny I'd scraped together working the overnight shift at Bowser's Basement, a dogfood packing factory that smelled like death and paid like it too. I have no idea how prad dogs tolerated the stuff.

Six months of shoveling meat byproducts into industrial grinders, coming home reeking of entrails and preservatives as well worth it, permitting me mobility. While other kids got state-of-the-art DungeonRunners or sleek Gurrwulf Industries Gliders gifted by their parents, I sweated and saved for a 1967 muscle car that consumed gas like it was going out of style and broke down roughly every hundred miles. Still, it 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 extravagant. Not for the first time, I cursed my brother and his talent for manipulation. The golden child. The prodigy. The one with actual useful delving skills.

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

| Name: Alec Benoit Foster

| Species: Human

| Level: 3

| Core Affinity: Reconstitution

| Health: 67/100%

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

| Strength: 14

| Agility: 4

| Dexterity: 12

| Vitality: 36

| Charisma: 9

| Foresight: 2

| Intelligence: 37

| Wisdom: 30

| Skills: [Reconstitution], [Depictomancy], [Syntropic Fusion]

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 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 even 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 mixture of pity and fascination.

"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.

"Well," she'd replied, "most delvers regenerate at least one point per day. Your brother regenerates approximately fifteen points per hour." She'd handed me my certification card with a sigh. "Perhaps consider 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. 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, of course, had been blessed with Pyrokinesis—the ability to create and control fire. Flashy, powerful, and perfect for clearing dungeons and impressing girls. 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!" 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! I'm talkin' to you!" the cheetah said, poking me hard in the back. "Wass yooorrr name, peeeeenk tater?"

I snapped the car hood down and turned slowly, forcing a neutral expression. The gray cheetah swayed slightly before me, her eyes unfocused but gleaming with mischief. Her leather jacket covered in metal studs and silver runes was unzipped, revealing a tank top with "SKID MARKS" emblazoned across it, accompanied by a crude tire track graphic. A neon green mohawk stood at attention between her spotted ears, an unholy clash with her silver and white fur pattern.

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

"Right?!" She beamed, spinning around to show off the back, where a cartoonish cheetah on a motorcycle skidded to leave a mark in the shape of a middle finger. "I designed it myself! I'm Captain Adler! Pack leader of the most badass crew this side of the Superstore and Highway 69! 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 continued, ignoring my disinterested expression and pointing at a lynx who was now sitting on the hood of my car, methodically licking what appeared to be a half-eaten corn dog. "That's Bark-n-Bite and Tequila Sunrise—" two wolves, one of whom was now attempting to drink from the gas pump. "And that's Donutz." The black and orange fox, who seemed to be the most sober of the group, gave me a predatory once-over 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—"

"You ain't goin' nowhere without tellin' me yo name, tater!" Captain Adler declared.

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

"Ffffineeee," Adler wobbled. "Shy are we? Foxxy, help me out, he's bein' deifffficult."

Donutz stepped closer to me poked me in the side. “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 eyes flashed silver-violet. "Holy shit, girls! We found ourselves a cockroach!"

“What you mean?” The cheetah blinked at the fox. "How's he a corkroackshhh?"

“The Astral Hook says his skill means he can’t die,” Donutz snickered, leaning against my car and blocking my car door handle with her body.

“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? Where 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.

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

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

"The Strand syndicate owns that whole damn town," TurboFluff interjected, sounding slightly more coherent. "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 tried sellin’ fried shrimps in her fast food van there without getting approval from the raptors. Three days later, she's found floating in Lake Memphrey with her fur ripped off. 'Accident,' they called it. She had to spent like four grand on a healer! Couldn't even memba' what happened to her!"

"Those raptor beerches run everything," Addie said, jabbing a claw into my chest. "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 before you even cross the city line."

"They do love collecting humans," Foxy added with a sneer. "I hear. 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 collar serving drinks to lizards your entire life?"

“Serving drinks?” Bark-n-Bite laughed. “As if! If he can’t die they’ll use him as target practice at the arrow range or make him fetch golf balls while they play golf aiming for him.”

I frowned.

"Ya, dude," Tequila Sunrise added. "Turn that rustbucket of yours around and go anywhere else. 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 carefully, "but my grandfather is expecting me and—"

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

More hysterical laughter. 

“You acshulley wan’ to keep this one, Addie? A level three?! For realsies?” TurboFluff, the lynx, actually fell off my car hood, cackling so hard she dropped 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 impossible speed of a skilled delver.

"Why not?" Addie declared, claws digging harder into my jacket. "I ain’t ever heard of a Reconstitution. S’ounds rare n’ sheet’. You're like a little cockroach, yeah? Squish, squish, but you keep coming back, yeah?"

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.

"Nah," Addie's expression changed, her drunken playfulness taking on a more predatory edge. "Y'know," she slurred, "I think I'm gonna claim you."

I squinted at her.

"Yeah. I’ma claim. You." She repeated slowly, as if I were particularly dense. "My own 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! Humans break so easily!"

Before I could say anything else to rebuff her advances, Addie thrust her 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, cutie," she slurred, 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!" she declared proudly, wiping her remaining 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’!"

"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 mohawk practically bristling, "I think our new pet needs some obedience training."

My hand slid into my pocket, fingers wrapping around a small plastic container 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. Addie'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, I bolted past the incapacitated cheetah, making a beeline for the gas station's mini-mart, hoping to draw them inside 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 him!" she crowed triumphantly, as blue liquid soaked through my clothes.

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

As I rounded the corner, I yanked a small canister 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 pradavarian 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—the smoke would make it nearly impossible for them to track me by sight.

"What the—I can't see shit!" Bark-n-Bite yelped.

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

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

I crawled quietly toward the back of the store, extracting another item from my jacket—a small electronic device that looked like a key fob but was actually a pradavarian deterrent. Another street purchase, it emitted a high-frequency sound imperceptible to humans but intensely 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.

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

Using their 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 better than nothing. I also pulled a can of wasp spray from my jacket pocket.

Bark-n-Bite appeared through the smoke, brandishing what looked like 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.

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

"Get him you knobs!" Addie ordered.

What followed was the most absurd drunken chase scene in the history of gas station convenience stores. I darted between aisles, swinging my pathetic snow brush at any prad shins that got too close. They pursued with drunken determination, knocking over displays, slipping on spilled washer fluid, and occasionally crashing into each other when their 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 all confused and blinded, I made a break for the door, my pocket fogger still pumping smoke through the store. For a moment, I thought I might actually escape—then I heard Addie's voice, suddenly clear and focused.

"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.

"Clever 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 side.

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

"You made this much more fun than I expected," Addie's voice echoed, seemingly from two separate locations. "But playtime's over. 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 very 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 actually 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, her mohawk bristling with static electricity. "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 faster than I could blink. The stunner clattered to the floor.

"You put up a good fight, little tater," Addie said, approaching slowly, deliberately. "Most of your kind would have been curled up crying by now. I'm almost impressed."

"Almost being the key word," TurboFluff cackled.

"Yes. Hitting your owner is a big no, no," the cheetah said. "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 the first minute, strips of fabric fluttering to the floor like confetti.

"Nice abs," she commented, dragging a claw down my exposed stomach hard enough to draw blood. "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 impossible to brace or prepare or 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.

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

"To be fair," the fox grunted, hauling me back upright, "he almost did. That pepper trick got you down for a bit."

"For a bit doesn't 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."

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

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

By the time they finished, I was a bloody, swollen mess of bruises and claw marks. My clothes hung in tatters, barely preserving my modesty. The fox finally released me, and I crumpled to the floor like a marionette with his strings cut, unable to even curl into a defensive ball.

"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 fun," Addie's voice drifted over the edge of the dumpster. 

"Wait, why are we throwing him out? What about your claim?" Donutz asked.

"He smells like blood, pepper, smoke and windshield washer fluid now. Gross." Captain Addler commented. “S’ides we’re on a schedule. The Superstore entry ticket is gon’ expire if we don't use it for today’s delve. We gotta train him up a bit - I don’t want him eaten in the dungeon by a staple spider. We’ll get him on our way back after he cleans himself up n’ shit. Tag him as our property.”

“Mkay,” Donutz pointed a clawed finger at me. “Tag target!”

A blue-violet hexagram flashed on her finger and a violet spell struck me in the head, temporarily blinding me.

[Personal Status Added: Property of the SKID MARKS.] Violet-blue sparks danced across my eyes.

There was a rustling sound, then Addie's spotted 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.

"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, leaving a trail of blood on the concrete.

Inside the mini-mart, an old bulldog pradavarian stood behind the counter, methodically mopping up the mess from my earlier fight. 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 good, it’ll get most of it off you.”

“Thanks,” I dropped Adler’s crumpled dollar bills on the counter, not bothering to count them. “I’ll grab some clothes too.”

"Not your first rodeo, is it?" 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?”

“Hrm,” the old bulldog rubbed his chins. “Anyone with a tagger-skill or a nullifier scrubber will remove it quickly, but it won’t be cheap—according to the door scanner, they’re in the high forties, so I presume the tag is somewhere in the high forties too.”

“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. 

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. 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 home with my metaphorical tail between my legs. Try to get by without finishing school, maybe find a part time job. Or I could continue to Ferguson, where the raptor mafia awaited which was apparently far worse than the biker gang.

Neither option seemed particularly appealing.

I pulled out my 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 yellow-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 scrolled down.

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 that probably cost more than my entire life. I tapped it.

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 reminder 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 rumblings of the local biker gang.

I 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. 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 husky I encountered last night when I aimlessly and blearily scrolled through Pradstagram.

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."

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. 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 rearview mirror like a bad memory that refused to fade.