Quibble_auk

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Warnings!

It’s been a while since I’ve done these but…

Death, character mutilation, animal mutilation, graphic gore and violence, disturbing imagery, dead children, body horror, and implied suicide (although it’s probably not what your thinking it is if you’ve already read this).

Also, as woke as this western society is, they do have flaws, an example being calling a person with Vitiligo a “piebald” just.. don’t do that. It’s offensive and wrong.

Stay safe

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The pine needles beneath the bedroll were damp with the rot that always followed the beginning of the spring thaw and the settling dew of the night; their sharp tips pressing through the thin fabric and sticking into Tanner’s side.

Higher up the ridge, where the timber grew sparse and the grey shale took over like broken teeth, the wind was already whistling through the gaps with cold, sharp air that smelled of the northern peaks. Yet, down below, tucked into the hollow of a dry creek bed where the ancient timber grew thick enough to block out the stars, the air was just heavy. It clung to Tanner’s skin like wet flannel, smelling of old sap, wet dog, and the greasy, comforting scent of pork grease lingering in the iron skillet.

The camp was a meager thing.

The humble fire that had framed the evening in an intimate and warm light had faded into a small, dying pit of coals that hissed as the damp evening air rolled down from the peaks. The mess kits from dinner were still laid out on a nearby fallen trunk, abandoned in the silvery darkness of the triplet moons. Tonight though, the twins were resting—their beastly eyes closed in the vast expanse of the night sky—leaving their lone sibling to sit vigil and watch over the lands below.

It was late—past the hour when the loggers put out their lanterns and well into the stretch where the shadows began to shift and mimic things with teeth.

Tanner lay with his eyes open and half lidded, idly staring up at the canopy, watching as the mighty branches shifted in the cool breeze. The timber was sighing with an ancient song, their long torsos dancing in a mesmerizing sway. Off in the distance, the low, tectonic rumble of a sauropod herd vibrated through the earth like an impending storm, contrasting sharply with the high, laughing calls of nocturnal critters who cut through the brush.

To the young man’s left, a massive, rhythmic rise and fall of a beast’s ribcage was a steady anchor in the dark.

Bailey was well over twenty feet of muscle, bone, and sharp edges—her mass half curled into herself and half sprawled across the length of the camp—but in her sleep, the dilophosaurus looked strangely soft. Every three or four breaths, her throat would rattle in a low, bird-like clicking, followed by one of her forelimbs twitching as she chased some phantom game through the brush of her own sleep.

Resting over the hip of Bailey was the crested head of Gale—Bailey’s broodmate and sister. Nested between the sisters lay a pair of Deinonychus—Maverick and Chance. Their smaller, tightly curled, feathered bodies shifted in a constant shiver of anticipation that refused to leave their lean frames, even in their sleep.

The large mass of prehistoric creatures were a great, dark mound against the roots of the towering trees above—their presence keeping the midnight scavengers from breaching the camp.

Pressed against Tanner’s right side, snugly tucked against the Boy Wonder’s frame, was Jesse.

Jesse had been Tanner’s Beau for years, his trail partner for longer. A strange, gentle thing that had blossomed and flourished among the violent and demanding nature of the wilds. Usually when the fates aligned and the Guild placed them on the same trail—something that had become a rarer occurrence as of late—their nights were filled with the easy, lazy affection of two people who knew each other’s rhythms down to the bone.

Tonight was no exception.

The two men were completely tangled up with each other. One of Tanner’s legs was hooked over Jesse’s thighs, his arms wrapping around the other man’s torso to hold him against his own chest. Jesse had his face buried into the hollow of Tanner’s neck, his breath puffing steady and warm against Tanner’s collarbone. Jesse’s left hand—rough palmed and calloused from years of handling tack—was hooked firmly into the belt loops of Tanner’s trousers, as if even in his sleep he was worried the Boy Wonder might suddenly slide away into the dark.

Tanner didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

His left arm was entirely numb beneath Jesse’s shoulders, but he wouldn’t have shifted for all the gold in the Bedstone valley. He liked the weight of him. He liked the way Jesse didn't care about the grand stories they printed in the papers or anticipating whispers that followed the Boy Wonder wherever he roamed.

To Jesse, he was just Tanner—the stubborn, reckless fool who forgot to grease his boots and couldn’t toast bread without charring a side of it. Jesse wasn’t a greenhorn bumbling blindly about the trail, looking at Tanner like he was a god who knew why the grass grew green and the brooks bubbled in the spring. He knew how to keep his wits when the wind turned and had a fire in him that knew when to call the Boy Wonder out for his faults.

But more importantly, Jesse knew how to hold Tanner without it feeling like he was shackled, suffocating under the weight of that affection.

And frankly, Jesse was hot as a freshly baked brick.

Tanner exhaled softly, the breath blowing a stray strand of dark hair away from Jesse’s forehead. The fellow Saurboy stirred against him, the movement less an awakening and more a deeper settling into the contours of Tanner’s frame. He let out a low, gravelly mutter—the nonsensical language of a man halfway between the trail and the dreamscape—and tightened his calloused grip on Tanner’s belt loop.

The peace of their camp wasn’t broken by some great beast of the night or a desperate outlaw—either of those would have been a mercy.

Instead, the woods went dead.

It didn't happen fast. It was like a lamp being turned down by a slow hand. The crickets that had been chirping in the brush since twilight simply stopped. The low, vibrating hum of the nocturnal tree frogs died out, leaving nothing but the sound of Jesse’s breathing and the distant, lonely creak of a dead branch rubbing against another high above.

Tanner’s eyes snapped toward the dark.

His heart didn't hammer against his ribs—not yet—but his skin went tight and cold, the hairs on his forearms prickling against the wool of his shirt. The young man didn’t move. He didn't breathe. His gentle grip on the back of Jesse’s tightening just a fraction.

Snap.

It was a small sound. A twig, no thicker than a man’s thumb, cracking under a heavy heel about thirty yards out into the timber.

Tanner’s right hand slid down. His fingers didn't fumble; they knew the path by heart. They slid over the cold, grease slicked steel of his revolver, his thumb resting lightly against the hammer. He didn't cock it—the click would have been a gunshot in this silence—but he cleared the leather without a sound.

The forest around him hadn't changed, but the air had grown dense. It felt thick in his nose, like the humidity before a July cloudburst, the woodland holding its breath right alongside Tanner.

Snap-clack.

It wasn't a stone rolling. It wasn't the clumsy stomp of a stray trike or the light, four beat patter of a wild raptor. It was deliberate. A rhythmic, bipedal stride. Light. Arrogant. The heel to toe roll of a man who knew exactly where the dry twigs were and was stepping on them anyway, just to see if anyone was listening.

Tanner looked over at Bailey.

“Bailey,” he hissed, following the word with a sharp tongue click against his teeth.

The dilophosaur hadn't moved. Her eyes were shut tight. Her breath heavy and undisturbed, synchronized with Gale’s gentle huffs.

“Bailey,” Tanner whispered again, the sound barely a puff of air from his throat. He nudged her with the heel of his boot, “Wake up, girl. Up.”

She didn't even twitch. Her hide remained cool, her snout resting in the dirt, entirely dead to the world.

A cold prickle of sweat broke out along Tanner’s hairline, his jaw tightening until his teeth ached. He slowly turned his head, his chin brushing against Jesse’s soft hair.

“Jesse,” he murmured, his voice slightly tighter now, the edge of panic beginning to fray the corners of his drawl. “Jesse, get up. We got company.”

The only response he got was Jesse letting out a small, sleepy sigh.

Another twig snapped, this time closer.

Tanner shook him. He took Jesse by the shoulder and rocked him, his hand sinking into the familiar wool of his jacket. Jesse didn't stir. He didn't groan or roll away; his head simply lolled back against the bedroll, his features soft and slack in the midnight shadows, his breath continuing its steady, unbroken rhythm.

Then came a sound that made the hairs on the back of Tanner’s neck prickle. His whole body went rigid within seconds.

“Tanner.”

The voice came from the trees.

It was thin, carried on the back of a sudden, freezing gust of wind that made the towering timber groan. It wasn't a shout. It was a call—playful, boyish, filled with an infectious mirth and laced with a low, vibrating chuckle that sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated ice straight down Tanner’s spine.

He knew that laugh.

He’d chased it through his dreams a hundred times over.

Tanner’s fingers tightened around the walnut handle of his gun. He didn't look back down at Jesse again. He couldn't. He carefully slid out from the other man’s hold, his chest tightening further at the loss of contact; though he didn’t dwell on it long. Tanner never rose to his full height, remaining crouched and low to the ground as he slid his feet into his boots.

The Boy Wonder kept his head low as his gaze slowly swept the perimeter, his revolver held firmly against his thigh; his thumb finally drawing the hammer back into a full, lethal click.

Through the black lace of the ferns, fifty yards out, he saw it.

A silhouette. It was taller than any man had a right to be, easily six foot six, with shoulders that cut a wide, sharp wedge against the faint grey light of the upper ridge. The figure didn't run. It just drifted between the trunks, its long duster brushing the grass as it leisurely walked through the woodland.

The stranger laughed again.

It was a low, melodic, entirely theatrical chuckle that seemed to dance through the pines, bright and silver, followed by a voice that sounded like it had been dragged through gravel and dipped in honey.

“Come on, Boy Wonder,” the voice called again, closer now, though the figure seemed to be moving further away. “Don't tell me the Guild’s got you tied to such a short leash that you won't even chase a rabbit into the brush.”

A breath caught in Tanner’s throat, sharp as a fishhook.

He only hesitated for the space of a heartbeat, his thumb resting on the knurled spur of his revolver’s hammer. Every instinct he had—every rule the seniors had drilled into him before they died in the dirt—said to stay with his mount, to stay with his trail partner. Separating was the worst decision you could make in the wilds.

A Saurboy without his beast was as good as buzzer food.

And yet, despite the crawling dread and rush of adrenaline through his blood, the idea of staying, of not giving chase left his chest feeling empty and too tight.

His boots were already moving before he could waste another second.

Tanner didn’t run, not at first—he knew he should have, he should have rushed after the bandit and put an end to this as quickly as possible. Instead, he walked around the remaining coals of the small campfire, cautiously stepped over Bailey’s tail, and crossed into the inky darkness of the surrounding woodland at a slightly hurried pace.

The branches of younger trees clawed at his duster, pine needles scraping against his leather vest with a sound like small knives, but he didn't slow. He followed the sound—the faint, teasing rustle of leather ahead, the occasional white flash of a shirtsleeve between the trunks. He could hear the figure ahead humming a tune, a wild, lawless melody of the western wastes.

“Jasper!” Tanner called, his voice rough, cutting through the forest like an axe blade as he nearly stumbled over a root—one that he could have sworn jumped out into his path like a serpent. “Jasper, you bastard, hold up!”

Jasper, yes, Tanner could remember now. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird at the realization. A memory danced just outside of reach, taunting him—crows gathering as he stacked rocks.

Before he could grasp it, the laugh came again, deeper in the woods, light as a feather and sharp as a razor. “You gotta catch me first Lawman! Show me that speed they’re writing about in those papers!”

Something picked at Tanner’s chest, a strange, fond, lightness making itself known against his rigid dread. The young man broke into a trot, his spurs jingling a frantic, muted cadence against the forest floor. He didn't feel the cold anymore; his skin was hot, his pulse hammering against his temples like a wild colt against a corral gate.

He wanted—no, he needed—to see that face. He needed to see if the world was still spinning the way it was supposed to, or if the frontier had finally gone mad.

Tanner sprinted. His boots tearing into the soil, his breath hitching as he tried to close the distance. He didn't think about the law. He didn't think about the fact that he was alone in the dark without his mount.

He just ran.

The blackberry brambles clawed at his shins, the branches of the low pines slapped across his face like whips. But he kept his eyes locked on that tall, dark shape. The figure was moving toward the base of the high ridge where the limestone caves cut deep into the earth—the black mouths that the locals said swallowed men up.

“Jasper!” Tanner yelled, his lungs burning with the sudden, freezing draft. “Where are-”

He never finished.

Jasper’s figure turned a corner around a massive trunk, the fabric of his coat snapping like a flag. Tanner skidded around the same tree, his heels digging into the wet moss, his gun raised, ready to put a lead ball through the center of the man's chest.

But the shot never came.

Tanner froze, his breath catching in his teeth, his revolver trembling in his grip. His open hand came up to steady himself against the tree.

The darkness broke.

A fire was burning.

It wasn't a large one—just a small, neat ring of river stones surrounding a flame that was little more than a handful of orange teeth chewing through some chopped oak—but it threw enough light to paint the limestone wall of the cave behind it in shades of blood and gold.

And lazily sitting on a fallen log beside the fire—as if he had been waiting there for hours—his long legs stretched out toward the heat, was Jasper.

Tanner wanted to say something, words were itching at the back of his throat, begging to be released into the brisk mountain air, but he remained silent. His shoulders losing their firm tension as he stared at the man, panting.

Jasper looked just like Tanner remembered him.

He was a big man—taller than Tanner by half a head, with broad, loose shoulders that seemed to take up more space than the mountain allowed, though his build was lankier than Tanner’s own. His duster was neatly folded beside him, revealing a fine, silver buttoned vest that was far too elegant for the frontier; the front undone of his shirt and to reveal his bare chest.

It was his skin that drew the eye, even in the shifting, chaotic light of the oak fire.

That terrible, beautiful piebald hide that had earned him his name. His skin was a mosaic of deep, sun browned tan and stark, milk white patches—the vitiligo spreading across his neck, his jaw, and up over his left eye like the markings of a paint horse. It snaked across his chest like frost over a windowpane, marbling the skin of his arms where his sleeve was rolled up.

He had his hat off, revealing a shock of thick, unruly brown hair broken by patches of bone white, and his eyes—bright, wild, and completely unhinged, one the color of chestnuts and the other a winter storm—were fixed on the flames.

The townsfolk called him the Piebald Piper, and the name had fit him like a custom glove. He had a way of whistling up theropods out of the brush that defied everything the Saurboy Guild taught, a talent that should have made him a chief warden if he hadn't preferred the smell of burning banks and the freedom of the high line.

Jasper didn't have his three allosaurus with him now. There were no giants tethered in the dark, no sound of their heavy, three toed stamping or the wet rattle of their lungs. The camp was silent save for the roar of the wood and Tanner’s panting breaths.

The Piebald Piper was leaning forward, a pocketknife in his hand, idly shaving a splinter of pine into the flames. He didn't look up when Tanner burst into the circle of light, his iron extended at arm’s length, aligned perfectly with the white patch over Jasper’s heart.

It took another three long, antagonizing heartbeats for Tanner to find his voice.

“Don't move,” the young man rasped, his voice raw, shaking with a volatile mixture of fury, paralyzing disbelief, and a rattling desperation. “Put your hands where I can see them, or I swear to Freyda I’ll put a hole through your throat before you can blink.”

Finally, Jasper turned.

He looked like Tanner.

Not in the face, but in the way he held himself—the same loose, dangerous grace, the same boyish tilt of the chin, the same raw talent that made the world look small. Only Jasper had been the Piebald Piper of the West, a man who could lead a three ton Allosaurus into a cavalry camp with nothing but a whistle and a grin, leaving behind red mud and broken wood.

The man at the fire didn’t flinch. He didn’t reach for a weapon. Instead, he let out that same, rich, theatrical laugh, tossing his head back.

“Tanner, my boy!” Jasper exclaimed with a brilliant smile. His arms spread wide in a dramatic, welcoming gesture as if they were old friends meeting in a tavern rather than a hunter and his dead prey. “You always did know how to ruin a grand entrance with that sour face of yours.”

Tanner’s breath hitched in his throat at the sound of the outlaw’s voice, his heart skipping a beat—out of excitement or dread, he wasn’t sure.

“You’re late,” Jasper continued, unbothered. His voice was smooth, like molasses over a razor blade. He tossed the splinter into the fire. It caught instantly, hissing with violent flame. “I figured you’d have caught my scent five miles back, Saurboy. You’re losing your edge.”

“Jasper,” Tanner whispered, his voice cracking. He kept the revolver leveled right between those wild eyes, though his fingers had long since slacked against the walnut handle. “How are you… where are your birds?”

Jasper let out a short, barking laugh, the sound echoing off the mouth of the cave behind him. “The girls? Oh, they’re around. Always around when they smell fresh meat. But tonight… tonight it’s just you and me, brother.”

He laughed again, finally looking at the gun, his white patched face twisting into a wide, beautiful grin that showed too many teeth. He tapped the log beside him with the flat of his knife. “Put the iron away and sit down before your legs give out, Boy Wonder.”

Tanner’s instincts were screaming at him to pull the trigger. Every rule the Guild had ever drilled into his skull told him that a rogue like Jasper didn't give seconds. But there was something else in his chest—a heavy, suffocating ache that felt a lot like loneliness.

Slowly, against every lick of sense he possessed, Tanner lowered the gun, his chest slowly settling from its heaving to something more controlled. He stared at the outlaw for a second longer before he looked down at the revolver and holstered it at his hip—a fools mistake, he knew.

Tanner moved forward, his boots dragging in the dirt until he sank down onto the log; far enough away from Jasper to keep their shoulders from brushing but close enough to smell the oil the taller man used for his boots.

The heat from the coals hit his face, but it didn't feel right. It didn't smell like woodsmoke; it smelled dry, like old paper left out in the sun.

Jasper smiled—warm and trail weary—and pulled a flask from his saddlebag resting nearby, casually tipping it back before offering it to Tanner. The young man stared at the silver flask. In the firelight, the engraving on the metal—the silhouette of a rearing carnivore—hadn’t been worn smooth yet.

He didn’t take it. He couldn’t bring his hands to lift, his fingers still feeling the ghost of the walnut grip they had so desperately clung to only moments ago.

Tanner shook his head, sighing as he looked back at the fire.

“I'm not drinking with a dead man, Jasper,” Tanner said. The words felt heavy, like wet river silt clogging his throat. They didn't ring out with the sharp authority of a Guild Lawman; they dropped into the dirt between them, flat and hollow.

That was it, Jasper was dead.

Tanner remembered.

But Jasper didn't flinch. He didn't fade away like some ghost. He just let out another one of those low, musical chuckles, capping the flask with a crisp clink of metal that sounded entirely too real. He set it down on the log between them.

“Dead?” Jasper echoed, playfully tilting his head. The stark white patch over his left eye caught the orange glow of the fire, making the socket look deep and empty, like a skull's grin. “Now, who went and told you a nasty lie like that? The papers? You know those printing press bastards can't tell a raptor's track from a boot heel.”

The Boy Wonder didn’t look up from the fire, his breathing slow and easy, though weighed by something he was too scared to put a name to.

“I stacked the rocks, Jasper,” Tanner whispered. The memory he had been running from, the one that had been nipping at his heels through the dark timber, finally caught him. It bit down hard. “I went and tracked your body down and dug you a shallow grave until my nails bled. The crows were waiting for me to turn my back. I kept your flask.”

The forest around them didn't stir. The fire didn't pop. The small, orange teeth of the flame just kept chewing silently through the oak, casting long, unmoving shadows against the limestone cave behind them.

Jasper sighed. It was a sound like dry autumn leaves scraping across a porch. He leaned back, locking his hands behind his head, his bare, piebald chest expanding in a slow, easy breath.

“Well,” Jasper murmured, his tone dripping with that lazy, infuriating fondness that used to drive the Guild masters up the wall. “You always did have a soft heart for a rogue, Boy Wonder. I appreciate the masonry. Truly. But you're missing the forest for the trees, brother.”

“Stop calling me that,” Tanner rasped, a sudden, hot flash of anger breaking through the icy dread in his veins. He whipped his head back around, his jaw locked. “What are you doing here? What do you want?”

There was a long, stagnant pause before Jasper’s too smooth voice broke it. His gaze fixed on the silver star that glinted on Tanner’s breast. Jasper’s face softened, the boyish arrogance turning into something heavy, something like pity.

“Look at you,” Jasper murmured, his wild eyes tracing the silver badge before finally meeting Tanner’s eyes. “The Great Boy Wonder of the West. The savior of the territory. Look at that badge on your chest, boy. It’s practically tarnishing while I watch.”

The outlaw smiled, cruel and mocking, sending shivers down Tanner’s spine as he continued. “They’ve got you running errands for fat governors and cattle barons, don’t they? Chasing down greenhorns, herding duckbills... they’re turning a wolf into a sheepdog.”

Tanner’s jaw tightened, his brows narrowing—though some vile part of his soul squirmed in his gut.

He knew Jasper was right.

“I keep the peace, Jasper. I keep people alive,” Tanner said, though the words felt heavy and false in his mouth, like standard grease.

“No, you keep them safe,” Jasper spat, his boyish temper flaring for a second, his white-patched brow furrowing before he smoothed it out with a theatrical sigh. He pointed at Tanner’s chest, the knife glinting in the firelight. “But who keeps you safe? Who lets you just... ride? Look at this country, Tanner! It’s ours!”

He stood up, his height casting a massive, twisting shadow against the roof and walls of the vast cave behind them. He held his hands out, the white and dark patches of his skin gleaming like a snake’s hide.

Tanner knew where this was going, he had heard it a thousand times before, he was certain of it, but he didn’t move to stop it, captivated by the man before him.

“The ancient things, the big lizards, the beasts, the sky—it belongs to the boys who have the stones to take it,” Jasper barked, his voice suddenly loud, full of that sudden, theatrical thunder that had always made him a legend around the campfires. “We could be legends together. Not the kind they print on cheap paper to sell to kids, but the kind they whisper about around fires when the wind gets high for years to come. You and me. No masters. No badges.”

He leaned in close, his breath smelling faintly of wintergreen and copper. “Come with me, boy. Leave the little hounds and the boyfriend in the ditch. Let’s go see what’s on the other side of the mountains, let’s tame those beasts that mankind fears.”

The words hung in the air, thick and sweet as honey.

Tanner looked at him. Really looked at him. For a long, terrible, beautiful second, his heart swelled with the idea of it.

Tanner felt the weight of the silver star leave his chest. He could see it. He could see himself and Jasper riding the rim rock, the three Allosaurus giants moving like thunder behind them, Bailey trilling with a wild, lawless joy she hadn't known since she was a hatchling. He could stop being the Boy Wonder. He could just be Tanner again. A boy with a gun and the whole wide world ahead of him.

The temptation was a physical thing, a thick sweetness in his throat that nearly choked him.

The sheer, absolute freedom of it was a siren song. No more orders. No more guilt. No more waking up with his hands shaking from the memory of the boys he’d had to put down.

But the mention of Jesse was a tether Tanner didn’t know he needed. He thought of the kids who looked at his prints with wide, hopeful eyes. He thought of the families he’d be leaving behind to burn into the ground. He thought of Jesse, the brilliant, wonderful man whose laugh made Tanner’s soul feel like it could soar again.

Worst of all, he thought of Danny.

He thought of his older brother sitting there, still trapped on the grounds on the family ranch, waiting to hear news of Tanner only to find out he had become the very thing that turned their lives upside down.

Tanner took a slow, deep breath, and the illusion shattered.

“No,” the young man drawled, shaking his head to scatter the thoughts from his mind. He stood up, his joints popping in the cold. He pulled his hat down, its shadow casting over his eyes, turning his back on the fire. “No, Jasper. I buried you once. I ain't joining you in the ditch. I’m going back to my camp.”

The silence that followed was instant. And it was wrong.

Like the air itself was rotting.

Jasper didn't move. He didn't yell. He just stood there, his hands dropping to his sides, the boyish grin slowly fading from his piebald face.

“That's a pity,” Jasper whispered. “A real pity, Tanner.”

The Boy Wonder froze, still turned to the tree line, something slick and greasy filling his gut.

A sudden, violent wave of heat rolled out from the mouth of the great cave behind them, carrying with it the choking, oily stench of burning hair and sulfur. A terrible sickness closed in on the clearing, settling over Tanner’s lungs like wet wool.

Tanner stumbled back, his hand flying to his throat as he gagged, turning to grab Jasper, to pull him away from whatever beast was stirring in the belly of the earth.

“Get back—” he choked out, but was cut off by his own strangled gasp.

It didn't happen with a roar or a crack of thunder. It started with a sound like fat in a hot pan—a soft, wet sizzling.

Tanner’s eyes widened as he watched the white patches on Jasper’s cheek begin to glisten. But the skin wasn't burning like it should have; it was running. Like cheap tallow left too close to the stove. The skin along his jawline sloughed upward, bubbling under the oppressive heat.

"Jasper?" Tanner choked out, his voice cracking childishly. He took a tentative step back, his hand flying to his own throat, his breath suddenly catching on something thick and sweet in the air.

The outlaw didn’t respond at first, he just stared at Tanner with those wild eyes.

His dark skin was bubbling like hot tar, sliding down his cheekbones in long, thick ropes that hissed as they hit the dirt. The white skin of his vitiligo was turning to grey ash, flaking away in the wind like burnt paper. His nose dissolved into a black, open triangle, and as he opened his mouth to laugh again, his bottom jaw simply detached, falling into the coals with a wet, heavy thud.

The big man’s shoulders collapsed inward, the vest wrinkling as the bone beneath gave way, turning to soft, yellow grease. His entire frame began to fold like an old tent, the linen shirt filling with a gray, powdery ash that spilled from the sleeves and the collar in a silent, suffocating torrent. Jasper’s left eye slipped down his cheek, trailing a line of gray slime behind it before dropping into the dirt with a soft plop.

Tanner couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe. His hand still outreached. The Boy Wonder just watched, his stomach rolling, lungs screaming for air and warm tears running down his cheeks as the Piebald Piper crumbled and fell apart until there was nothing left but a heap of gray, greasy ash that smelled of old bone and the specific, sulfurous stink of an open grave.

He blinked and the paralysis snapped like a dry twig.

“Oh- Oh my… Freyda…” The young man stumbled backwards, gasping, his boots tripping over themselves. He fell into the dirt, his hands plunging into the pine needles, but they didn't feel like pine needles anymore. They felt like hair. Human hair, coarse and dry, matting together under his palms.

“Tanner…”

The whisper didn't come from Jasper.

A wave of black smoke—thick as pitch and hot as a blacksmith’s forge—poured out of the limestone mouth, swallowing the log, the fire, and the trees. It didn't rise into the sky; it stayed low, a heavy, choking abyss that smelled of sulfur and old meat.

Something was in the cave.

Two blank eyes were staring at him.

Tanner scrambled to his feet, his breaths coming in uneven, choked sobs, his whole frame shaking. A primitive, lizard-brained terror had taken him by the throat, a cold hand squeezing his lungs until he could only let out thin, keening wheezes.

“Bailey!” he screamed, his voice rising into a shrill, childish shriek as he turned. “Jesse! Bailey!”

The Boy Wonder ran.

He didn't look for the trail; he didn't care about the branches. He threw himself into the dark timber, his boots skittering over the wet shale as the sky above turned into a solid sheet of midnight soot. The brambles tore at his clothes, ripping the skin, but he couldn't feel it. Tanner choked, his lungs seizing as the smoke hit his throat, hot tears leaving streaks through the soot on his face.

“Jesse!” Tanner screamed, his voice tearing in his throat as he lunged through the thickets. “Jesse get up!”

The forest was a maze of black trunks and red, pulsing shadows cast by the burning mountain behind him.

Behind him, through the roaring of the wind and the crackle of the approaching fire, he could hear it.

Someone was running.

But it wasn't the steady stride of Jasper. It was a frantic, shambling patter—the sound of small, bare feet, slapping against the wet mud with a frantic, desperate speed.

“Mr. Tanner! Mr. Tanner, please! Wait for me! It’s hot! It’s so hot!”

Tanner didn't look back.

He knew who that was. He knew that voice better than his own name. He sprinted harder, his heart bursting against his ribs, his breath coming in ragged, whistling sobs that tasted of copper and ash. He tore through a patch of wild briars, the thorns ripping his vest, tearing the skin of his face until he could feel the hot blood running into his collar.

“Jesse!” he roared as he broke into the small clearing of his camp. “Get up! Get up, we gotta get out of here!”

He was heaving for air, panting so hard his vision swam with violent black spots.

Tanner hit the dirt of the dry creek bed on his knees, sliding right up to the massive, dark shape of his mount. The camp was covered in an inch of grey soot now, the bedrolls looking like burial mounds in the dim, crimson light that seemed to be coming from the trees themselves.

“Bailey! We gotta go, girl! Come on, get up! Get up!”

The massive shape of the Dilophosaurus was still there, curled against her sister . She hadn't moved. She hadn't even lifted her head at his screams.

The young man choked, whimpering “Bailey, please—”

He reached out, his hand grabbing the heavy skin of her neck to shake her.

His hand didn't hit firm muscle. It slid.

The skin of her shoulder was cold—colder than the mountain air, colder than the stones in the creek bed. Tanner’s hands came away wet. Not with water. With a thick, dark substance that smelled of a slaughterhouse floor in August.

Tanner froze, his breath catching in a high, pathetic whine. “No no… Bailey… Bailey please.”

He didn’t know what he was begging her for at this point. Some part of him knew that there was no escaping this fire.

The light of the burning mountain broke through the canopy for a single, mocking second, illuminating the cedar roots and the shape of his beloved mount.

The big dilophosaur’s head was lying flat in the dirt, but as Tanner pulled his hand back, his eyes went wide, his jaw dropping in a silent scream that wouldn't leave his throat. His ribs felt like they were driving into his chest, suffocating under the pressure of a violent, bubbling horror that boiled in his gut.

The whole upper half of Bailey’s skull was gone.

The golden eyes that had looked at him with such suffocating devotion since she was the size of a quail—it was gone.

It hadn't been bitten off; it had been torn away, the bone shattered into white splinters that stuck out of the remaining red muscle. There was no snout. There was only her bottom jaw, still attached to the thick column of her neck by a few grey tendons, lying open in the soot like a broken trunk. Her rows of lower ivory teeth exposed to the sky like a broken picket fence. It was leaking a dark, bubbling pool of black blood that was sinking into the pine needles with a soft, hissing sound.

Tanner fell backward, his hands dragging through the red mud, his stomach heaving as a wet, hot bile rose in his throat. He leaned over, chest heaving in violent spasms, and vomited into the soot. His whole body shook so hard his teeth clicked together like dice in a cup. His chest seizing with a horror so absolute, so profound, it felt like a physical blade piercing his heart.

“No,” Tanner whispered, a tiny, child-like sound escaping his lips before a choked wail forced its way from his cage-like chest.

“No, no, no... Bailey, please, come back, please—” He sobbed, the tears cutting clean tracks through the ash on his cheeks. He reached out, his fingers dipping into the pool of her jaw, trying to pull the pieces back together, trying to find the skin that wasn't there.

“This- this ain't real,” Tanner screamed, his voice cracking, tears streaming down his dirt-streaked face. “This ain't real! Wake up! Tanner, wake the fuck up!”

It’s real, a voice whispered. It didn't come from the woods; it seemed to echo from inside his own bones. It’s all real, saurboy.

He shook his head, gasping, his mind scrambling to find purchase.

“Jesse!” Tanner breathed, his tone desperate and cracking. He needed someone, anyone. Another sob tore through him as he called into the darkness, unable to pull himself away from the ruined corpse of Bailey, “Jesse, please, tell me you're-”

“He can’t hear you, Mr. Tanner.”

The voice was right behind him.

Tanner froze. His hands stayed buried in the red ruin of his beast’s throat, his body turning rigid and cold as ice. Another keening whine dissolved into a childish whimper as he realized who it was.

The runner had caught him.

Tanner sucked in a wheezing breath, his whole body still trembling. He didn’t want to look back. He didn’t want to see. He prayed to whatever god was still looking down on him that he could just stay there, oblivious to whatever lay behind him.

He didn’t know if he moved on his own accord or if something had made him move. It didn’t matter, the result was the same. Tanner turned his head slowly, with the agonizing stiffness of a man facing his executioner, his neck firm as rusted iron.

Jesse—Tanner’s Jesse—was still lying peacefully on the bedrolls, curled into the memory of Tanner. He hadn't moved. But as the scarlet light from the woods caught his face, Tanner saw that there was no face left to see.

Jesse’s features had been wiped away.

The nose, the eyes, the lips—it was all gone, smoothed over into a flat, seamless expanse of skin, like a smooth river stone worn down by time. There were no holes for breath, no lines for expression. Just a blank, smooth egg of skin resting on the bloody bedroll, his chest still rising and falling with that steady, horrible rhythm.

Fresh tears rushed down Tanner’s face, catching the light of the growing fire that baked the moisture from his skin. His heart rattled against the confines of his ribs, a broken, childish wail caught in his tight throat.

And standing right over his Jesse was the kid.

Mika.

The thirteen year old was completely unbothered by the rain of ash and the suffocating smoke. He was wearing his scorched canvas overalls and the remnants of a checkered shirt that had been blackened by old fire. His small frame was thin and frail, stained with soot, slightly hunched at the shoulders, his weight uneven.

Tanner knew the boy.

Mika had been a strange kid—always talking to the walls, always screaming about the people who weren't there, his mind broken by a sickness Tanner didn't have a name for.

When the poor boy had finally snapped, Tanner had spent three days tracking the smoke of his fires. When the stable in Blackpick went up, Tanner had managed to corner him.

He hadn’t meant to kill him.

None of it mattered though. Because Mika was there, not as some shriveled up corpse, but just as he had been in life. Only…

Mika didn't have a face either.

His head was a smooth, grey skull of raw clay, the features rubbed out by a heavy thumb, erasing every line of his identity until it was nothing but a blank slate. Where his nose, his lips, and his freckled cheeks should have been, there was only a smooth, horrific expanse of grey skin. Just like Jesse.

Except for the eyes.

Where his eyes should have been, there were two small, perfectly round holes.

They weren't eyelids or sockets; they were pits. Small, bottomless wells that went straight through his skull into a cold, dead abyss that had no bottom. Tanner could look into them and see the vast, empty spaces between the stars, a vacuum that started sucking the air right out of his own mouth.

“I- I’m sorry,” Tanner wheezed, the sound swallowed up by the blistering wind that rushed through the woodland, stroking the wildfire. He shook his head weakly, scrambling until his back was pressed against the cold, slick body of Bailey. “Please… please… I’m sorry.”

The boy didn't have a mouth.

The skin across his jaw was tight and seamless, but as Tanner stared up at him, a sound began to rise from beneath the kid’s skin.

It was a shriek. A high, bubbling scream of a child being cooked alive—over and over again, for eternity—vibrating through the meat of his throat, muffled and terrible because there was no hole for it to escape.

The flesh of his smooth face bulging and stretching outward as if something inside was trying to punch its way through with its knuckles. The skin of his throat was tight, the tendons standing out like cables as the trapped voice tore at the meat from the inside.

Before Tanner could draw the breath to scream, Mika lunged.

The kid hit him with the weight of an iron stove, his small, grey hands locking around Tanner’s throat with a strength that didn't belong to anything human. The smell of burning pine and hot fat filled Tanner’s nose as Mika’s nails bit into his neck, the skin of the kid’s palms hot enough it began to blister Tanner’s collarbone through his shirt.

“Get off! Please- I’m sorry!” Tanner choked out, his legs kicking wildly in the soot, his spurs rattling against the rocks as he tried to throw the weight off his chest. He reached up, his fingers digging into Mika’s clay like wrists, trying to pry his fingers away. “I didn’t mean- I- I tried to save you!”

Mika didn't answer. The scream inside his skin grew louder, sharper, until Tanner’s ears began to bleed from the pitch of it.

He leaned down, those small, black void-pits for eyes staring directly into Tanner’s soul.

Tanner screamed, a choked, rattling sound, the smell of his own burning flesh filling his nostrils. He struck the boy in the chest, over and over to no avail. His own chest was heaving in broken hiccups. “No! Stop! Stop! Please—”

The boy's hands shifted and for a foolish, blind moment, Tanner thought he was done.

He was wrong.

Mika’s hands shot towards Tanner’s face before he could pull away.

His small, nimble fingers dug into the corners of Tanner’s eyes, into the edges of his jaw, his grip sinking through the skin until he found the bone beneath. The black holes of the kid’s face were inches away, staring into Tanner’s soul with an empty indifference.

The child’s thumbs dug into the skin above Tanner’s forehead, his grip tightening.

And then, he started pulling.

The pain didn't hit all at once. It came with a sickening, cold tear and something wet running down Tanner’s scalp.

Then, a pain worse than any dinosaur’s tooth, worse than any bullet or branding iron, exploded across Tanner’s skull. He could hear the sound—a wet, terrible ripping, like a man pulling a fresh hide off a carcass with a dull knife. The skin around his temples tore first, the blood rushing down into his ears in a hot, deafening roar as Mika peeled his face back.

"Stop! Freyda, please, stop!" Tanner screamed, but the words were losing their shape. He squirmed, he kicked, he clawed at the grey chest of the boy above him but there was no escape.

Mika’s fingers peeled back.

He took Tanner’s skin by the brow and pulled downward, a steady, heavy yank that tore the meat clean from the bone. Tanner’s eyes were still open, still functional as his own eyelids were dragged down over his cheeks, watching the red, raw muscle of his own forehead appear in the burning light.

He tried to scream. He opened his mouth to yell for Jesse, for his brother, to beg for anyone—but as the skin was pulled clear of his jaw, his lips went with it.

Tanner could feel the cold air of the mountain hitting the raw, wet muscle of his cheeks, the blinding agony of his nerves being exposed to the soot and the falling ash. He kicked, his spurs tearing through the dirt, his fists hammering against Mika’s smooth clay chest, but his blows were nothing.

The kid peeled it all off in one clean piece—the skin, the hair, the eyebrows—holding it up in the air like a bloody apron. Tanner could see the underside of his own face, grey and webbed with red veins, dripping blood into the soot.

Mika didn't wait.

He sat back on his heels and took the wet leather of Tanner’s face and turned it around. Slowly, reverently, he pressed it against his own smooth, clay head. The skin melted into the grey flesh with a wet slap, the eye holes lining up with those small pits of void, the mouth slit smoothing over until the Boy Wonder’s grin was plastered onto the monster's skull.

The fit was perfect. Within a second, the kid had Tanner’s brown eyes, Tanner’s lopsided, arrogant mouth, Tanner’s boyish curls. He looked down at the thing he’d left behind, his new lips twisting into that famous, reckless grin that had graced a hundred saloon bars.

Tanner was lying in the dirt, but he couldn't feel his body anymore.

He didn’t have the energy to fight.

Hesitantly, the young man raised his hands to his head, but his bloody fingers didn't find bone. They didn't find a skull.

There was nothing there.

His head was an empty pit, a hollow basin of skinless void that went all the way down to his throat. He had no eyes, yet he could see the camp. He had no tongue, yet the scream was still there, trapped in the center of his chest like a bird in a chimney.

Around him, the dark woods were suddenly full of people emerging from the smoke.

He saw Emily. She was wearing her fine silver sash, her sandy hair neat in its bun, standing by the edge of the creek bed with a white handkerchief pressed to her eyes. He saw the marshal. He saw Roland. He saw the shopkeepers from towns across the west, their hats held against their chests, their faces long and solemn as they looked down at the empty space where Tanner lay.

Tanner saw Danny.

“He was a good man,” Danny whispered, his voice clear and distant, as if he were speaking from the top of a well. “A bit reckless, but.. he was good.”

Tanner tried to yell. With a sudden surge of energy he tried to crawl towards his brother, but his body wouldn’t respond, it’s just writhed on the ground. He wanted to reach out to grab his ankles, to shake him, to show him that he was right here, trapped inside the black hole where his life used to be.

They didn't look.

To them, the Boy Wonder was gone, and the thing standing in front of them was nothing at all.

Danny just sighed, turning his back to the wind as the heavy, black ash began to settle over them all like a blanket of grey wool, burying the camp, burying Bailey’s jaw, burying the boy who had once been the wonder of the West.

Tanner’s eyes snapped open.

A violent, catastrophic gasp tore out of his chest as his body convulsed, his spine arching off the bedroll so suddenly his bones popped—bolting upright with the force of an exploding boiler.

He was screaming. A raw, ragged, animalistic shriek of pure, childish, terror that echoed off the pine trunks and sliced through the quiet mountain night.

“Tanner! Tanner, hey! Look at me. Just breathe.”

Hands were on him—heavy, warm, desperate hands grabbing his shoulders, gently trying to pin him down.

Tanner’s mind was still trapped in the bleeding, smoky void. His chest heaving so hard his ribs ached against his vest, his breaths coming in sharp, frantic, shallow hitches. He could still feel the phantom heat of Mika’s fingers burning into his hairline. He could still feel the wet, sickening peel of his own skin being ripped away like old leather.

It’s gone. It’s gone.

“Get off! Get off me!” Tanner shrieked, his voice completely unhinged.

With a desperate, choked sob, Tanner scrambled backward into the dirt, his legs kicking wildly against the blankets. He didn't realize his right hand was already clamped shut around something heavy, cold, and metallic. His entire universe had shrunk down to a single, terrifying directive:

Find your face. See if there’s anything left.

Tanner brought his left hand up to his forehead, his fingernails digging viciously into his skin, dragging them down across his brow, his cheekbones, his nose. He was clawing at himself, his fingers raking over his features with a frantic, trembling intensity, trying to force the nerve endings to fire, trying to prove to himself that he wasn't an empty pit.

His right hand followed the movement.

“Shit- Tanner, stop! Drop the iron! Please!” The voice was frantic, laced with a terrifying spike of panic. “Tanner, please! It's me! It's Jesse! You're in camp! You're safe!”

For a brief second, the name registered.

Jesse.

Tanner’s Jesse who had his face stolen.

The Boy Wonder keened, loud and sharp, his heart skipping in his chest.

Whoever was speaking to him dove forward, hands flying out to catch Tanner’s right wrist, their fingers clamping down like a vice. “You're got a gun at your head! Let go of it! Please Tanner!”

Beside them, Bailey was wide awake now, her massive form shifting in the dark. She let out a sharp, panicked trill, her golden eyes wide and reflecting the embers as she tossed her head, her tail thumping against the dirt in response to her rider’s absolute terror.

Tanner’s chest locked, his eyes rolling back slightly as his mind warred between the ghost of Mika and the solid, warm reality of Jesse’s fingers crushing his wrist. He looked at Jesse—really looked at him—seeing the sharp nose, the bright, terrified eyes, the moving lips.

He has a face.

He had his eyebrows pulled together in a tight, terrified scowl, his dark eyes wide, wet and completely alive as he leaned his full weight against Tanner’s shoulder. His lips were moving, trembling as he spoke, his breath coming in short, panicked puffs

“Jesse...?” Tanner choked out, a sudden, violent shudder wracking his entire frame.

The fellow Saurboy wasted no time at all.

The hand—rough, warm, and entirely solid—slammed down over his fingers, forcing them to loosen before prying the walnut handle away. Tanner could see the barrel of the gun get shoved down into the dirt before it could discharge.

“Yeah, it's me, it's me,” Jesse breathed, his voice cracking with relief as he finally managed to twist the revolver out of Tanner’s white knuckled grip. Jesse immediately wrapped his arms around Tanner’s neck, pulling the shaking saurboy tight against his chest, burying his face in Tanner’s messy, sweat soaked hair with a small sob. “I got you. You're okay. It was just a dream, Tanner. Just a dream.”

Tanner shook his head, his hands—now blocked from his face with Jesse’s body—started clawing at the other man’s shoulders. He was sobbing now, a desperate, choking sound, his whole body shaking as he tried to pull away from his lover’s embrace.

“It's gone... it's gone… my face, Jesse-” Tanner cried, his voice a ruined, frantic rasp. He didn't want a hug. He just wanted the skin to be there. He wanted to feel something other than the ghost of Mika’s hands. “Jesse... Jesse, help me... I can't find it… please.”

“Tanner, no. Look at me, look at my eyes. You’re okay, it was a dream,” Jesse’s was a cracking whisper, completely stripped of its usual steady confidence.

He didn't let go. Even as Tanner’s fingers curled into claws, tearing at the tough leather of Jesse’s vest. Jesse didn’t move.

“Tanner, just breathe, please. It’s there, I promise, look-” Jesse begged, his breath hot and ragged against the side of Tanner’s neck.

Jesse shifted his grip, abandoning his hold on Tanner’s shifting shoulders to cup his hands firmly around Tanner’s head. He pressed his palms hard against Tanner’s cheeks, his fingers wrapping around the line of his jaw, his thumbs smoothing desperately across Tanner’s cheekbones, over the bridge of his nose, pressing down until the skin flushed white under the pressure.

“See? It’s there,” Jesse gasped, his own tears finally spilling over, hot and fast, landing on Tanner’s trembling frame—still squirming and trembling violently. “I’m touching it. It’s skin. It’s your skin. It’s your mouth. You’re breathing through your mouth, Tanner. I need you to breathe through your nose.”

Tanner whined but didn't move his head away from Jesse’s touch, blinking as the pressure slowly registered. Slowly, hesitantly, he ran his tongue over his own teeth, feeling the sharp edges, feeling the wetness of his lips, the breath rushing in and out of his mouth in long, shuddering, uneven waves.

He had a face.

The skin was there. It was damp with sweat, stinging where his own fingernails had dug into his brow, but it was whole. It wasn't an empty, bottomless pit of a void.

Tanner’s hands, which had been clamped like iron vices around Jesse’s shoulders to push him away, slowly went slack. His fingers uncurled from the leather vest, his palms sliding up until they touched the sides of Jesse’s neck—feeling the hot, rapid, bounding pulse of a living man beneath the skin.

“It… it’s there?” Tanner whispered. The word/ didn't carry the authority of the Boy Wonder; they were the fragile, broken question of a child lost in the dark.

“Yeah,” Jesse choked out, his forehead dropping forward until it rested right against Tanner’s, his shoulders shaking as a massive sob finally broke through his defenses. “Yeah, it is.”

Tanner lay perfectly still beneath him for a heartbeat, processing the words.

Then, a sudden, massive convulsion wracked Tanner’s entire frame. The realization that the horror was gone didn't bring peace; it brought the crash. The adrenaline that had kept his muscles locked turned to pure, liquid lead, and he let out a long, broken wail—a sound of sheer, unbridled relief and lingering terror that seemed to tear straight out of his soul.

He threw his arms around Jesse’s neck, pulling him down with a desperate, crushing strength, burying his face so deep into Jesse’s shoulder it felt like he was trying to climb inside his bones.

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry, Jesse,” Tanner sobbed, his voice cracking into a high pitched wheeze as the tears finally came. His fingers clawing at the fabric of Jesse’s shirt as if the ground beneath them were about to open up and swallow him whole. “I couldn't find it... I couldn't feel nothing... I thought he took it...”

“I know, I know, it’s alright, I got you. I got you Tanner,” Jesse cooed, his voice a low, soothing rhythm as he shifted his weight, sliding off Tanner’s lap to lay directly in the dirt beside him. He pulled Tanner’s lean frame against his lap, wrapping his arms around his chest and rocking him back and forth slowly. “Breathe. Just breathe. I ain't letting nothing take you. You’re safe. I’m safe. The beasts are safe.”

Jesse continued to murmur and soothe the Saurboy, though Tanner clung to Jesse’s vest, his face pressed so tightly against his boyfriend's chest that his words were muffled by the heavy wool and leather. His breath was still coming in ragged, short hitches, his chest heaving against Jesse’s ribs in broken spasms.

He was safe.

The nightmare was fading back into the deep recesses of his mind, leaving behind nothing but the hollow, aching exhaustion of a man who had survived a hanging.

Then, his mind started to clear just enough for the fragments of the waking world to piece themselves together.

The red shadows were gone, yes. Jesse had a face, yes. But something else was wrong.

Tanner’s mind drifted back to when his eyes had snapped open. He remembered the weight. He remembered the cold, heavy bite of iron in his hand. He remembered the sharp, distinct click of wood and steel scraping against his temple while his finger had been hooked around something curved and small.

His breathing stopped entirely.

His body went perfectly rigid in Jesse’s arms, his eyes going wide as they stared into the blackness of the trees.

“Tanner?” Jesse murmured, feeling the sudden, unnatural stiffness in the man’s spine. He tightened his grip, his hand smoothing over Tanner’s back in small circles. “Hey, hey, stay with me. Come on, you’re alright.”

Tanner slowly turned his head, his neck moving with the agonizing stiffness of a rusted hinge, his gaze dropping to the revolver still resting several feet away.

The walnut handle was slick with his own cold sweat. The blue steel barrel was caked with dirt near the muzzle from where Jesse had violently shoved it down into the earth. The cylinder was full; the lead bullets inside were nestled against the copper caps, ready to ignite with a single pound of the hammer.

He had been holding it.

He had pulled it from his holster while he was still asleep. He had brought the iron up to his own skull. He had been clawing at his eyes with a loaded weapon pressed into his palm.

“I... I had my gun,” Tanner whispered. The words were so sharp, so thin, they sounded like they were breaking as they left his mouth.

Jesse didn't answer right away.

The other man felt the tremor that started deep in Tanner’s core and rippled through his limbs. Jesse’s jaw tightened, his own gaze flickering down to the revolver in the dirt before he reached out with one foot and kicked the heavy iron further into the darkness, completely out of reach.

“It’s fine,” Jesse said, though his voice lacked its usual strength. He lied, and they both knew it. His voice was trembling. “You didn't know what you were doing, Tanner. You were still in the dream. You were just trying to protect yourself.”

“I had it at my head,” Tanner choked out. He pulled his hands away from Jesse’s neck, staring down at his own palms as if they belonged to a stranger.

The image of the side of the muzzle scraping against his jaw, the memory of his thumb resting on the cold spur of the hammer while his mind was screaming about Mika—it flashed behind his eyes with a blinding, sickening clarity. “Jesse... I had the iron at my head. I coulda... what if I pulled it?”

“You didn't,” Jesse said fiercely, his arms locking around Tanner’s waist, pulling him back against his chest with a force that almost took Tanner’s breath away. Jesse buried his face in the crook of Tanner’s neck, his voice dropping into a raw, desperate hiss. “You didn't pull it, Tanner. I got it away. You’re here. That’s what matters. We can… we can figure that out later. Don’t think about it right now.”

But the thought was an infection.

The Boy Wonder—the legend of the territories, the man who had faced down rogue clans and rogue Allosaurs without his boots shaking—had almost ended himself in the dirt of a nameless creek bed because of a ghost. He had almost left Jesse alone in the high country with nothing but a corpse and two confused beasts.

“I could’ve... I could’ve killed you,” Tanner whispered, the realization hitting him like a physical blow to the stomach. A fresh wave of hot bile rose in his throat. He gasped for air as his ribs seized. “If it went off... if Bailey hit you... Jesse, I didn't know. I swear to Freyda I didn't know I had it.”

“I know you didn't!” Jesse hissed, his own control finally fraying around the edges. He gripped Tanner’s shoulders, shoving him away until he could look him in the eye. Jesse’s dark eyes were wild with a mix of leftover adrenaline and deep, aching grief for the state of the man in his arms. “You think I’m stupid? You think I don't know what these passes do to a man’s head? I ain't blaming you, Tanner!”

Jesse’s hand moved to Tanner's jaw once more, this time the touch was light, sacred almost, but his tone remained just as biting—just as afraid, “We can talk about it in the morning when we both got our wits about us. Alight? This is the third night in a row and I… I don’t know what to do Tanner!”

Tanner looked at him, his mouth open in a silent, trembling gasp. He saw the genuine, raw panic in Jesse’s features—the way his lips were white from biting them, the way his hands were trembling just as hard as Tanner’s were.

The Boy Wonder had terrified the one person in the west who looked at him without seeing a badge or a story print.

With a low, pitiful whimper, Tanner’s crumbled completely.

Tanner threw his weight forward, burying his face back into Jesse’s neck, his body curling up small until he was practically tucked into the hollow of the older saurboy’s chest.

“Okay… okay, I’m sorry. Just… just hold me... Jesse, please, just hold me,” Tanner whispered “Don't let me go back to sleep. I… I’m scared. I’m so fucking scared.”

Jesse sucked in a breath, shifting his weight to settle into a more comfortable position, trying to force his shoulders to ease.

“I got you, Tanner. I ain’t mad, I’m sorry,” Jesse whispered, his own voice breaking as he wrapped his long arms entirely around Tanner’s slouched shoulders, pulling him flush against his chest. “I’m right here. I’m holding on. You ain't going nowhere.”

They sat there for an eternity in the dry creek bed, the small, orange embers of their fire casting long, lazy shadows across the soot-covered camp. The general chaos had faded into a quiet, heavy vigil. Bailey remained kneeling behind them, a silent sentinel against the dark woods, her snout resting against Jesse’s shoulder, her deep, tectonic rumbles acting as a steady, grounding anchor.

When the sun finally rose, they both agreed.

—

Emily would not try to pretend she was spared from having a haunted conscience; there was no point in it really. Looking back, it seemed only children were free of that heavy burden—only the children that were spared from harsh winters and plagues, droughts, raids and the misfortune of living alongside great beasts truly had a resting mind.

Usually, it was something she took in stride. She accepted that she was not special or unique in her struggles. Emily knew that running from them wouldn’t do her any good either, that it would have been selfish for her to do such a thing.

Perhaps it was that very philosophy that saved her from meeting some grisly fate on a long forgotten trailhead, her body picked apart by scavengers and her bones used as a trail mark.

Instead, it tied her to a greater purpose, a sense of responsibility to lift that haunted burden from those around her—to keep those children free of the heavy weight of despair and ruin. She didn’t need a gun and a silver badge to protect them, she found other ways that didn’t bring her away from those she loved.

It was a solemn and exhausting duty, but it was hers to carry, Emily was sure. Even if it kept her tied to some ruined town, cropped her wings before she ever got the chance to feel the wind. She owed it to them though, to the good people of Bitterdown.

They had chosen her, elected her as the governor of the easternmost branches, mayor of the settlement’s edge. She had gained the power and privilege to give back, to protect and nurture just as she always wanted to.

Just under different terms than what the Guild would have given her. Under a title that denied her a seat at the solitary campfires of rangers.

But she had found a purpose regardless, one that still gave her the power and chance to change things for the better, to bring a new dawn to the frontier.

It didn’t mean it went away, it never truly did.

Eventually that terrible ache would creep back up through her spine, slither through her ribs and rest heavily against her heart. It was an awful thing that bled her soul dry. That siren song of the high plains and the drumbeat of the canyons; the lulling of woodland critters and the whispering of winds from the salty coastline. That itch in her chest to free herself of the shackles on her soul and let the wind take her to a place far from the land that seemed to own her.

It would creep in the dead of night and settle over her chest until she was certain she’d burst, a calling of the wild things.

It was then—in the solitary office of town hall or safely tucked into the bedframe her father’s father had carved from an ancient maple—that Emily would admit, she had regrets.

Many, many regrets.

And yet, her biggest regret wasn’t turning down the offer of the Saurboy guild. It wasn’t tethering herself to a run down town on the edge of civilization. It wasn’t making the wrong call two winters ago that led to the outermost homesteads going hungry. It wasn’t even when she opened her territory up and welcomed the Freyda-forsaken Easterners that came down from their mighty wall for the first time in recorded history.

No, Emily’s biggest regret was Tanner.

Tanner Reily Paxcolt.

The Boy Wonder of the West. The Child of the Wilds.

Emily didn’t regret knowing the man—if anything, she considered herself to be one of the lucky few who got to truly know that unruly man.

Not the Boy Wonder, just Tanner.

Emily could never regret her time with him. She wouldn’t take back a second of it, she prayed that she’d never forget a single moment of her time with him. The late nights spent under the stars whispering about the great things they’d do, the untamed grass of Mr. Dozier’s northern pasture cradling them. The afternoons spent in the crisp, frigid water of Lers lake in the dead heat of summer.

She would trade all the coin she owned just to feel it again; the autumn wind rushing, the song of beasts calling in the purple light of dusk, the sound of a boy’s brilliant laughter that rattled in his chest.

When she was with Tanner, Child of the Wilds, it was the closest Emily had ever gotten to tasting that freedom that sang to her.

Emily would like to believe that they had something together, not in a romantic sense necessarily. Her young teen heart had been broken when she discovered that romance was never on the table for them, but it had given them the space to build something else together. A bond she didn’t think she could ever give a name to. It was a boyish, wonderful thing that lifted the burdens and warded off that soul deep ache she felt—she was certain Tanner had it too.

That haunting of the soul just had a different face for him.

Regardless, she’d do it all again if she could. Emily wouldn’t have changed a moment of it, even the times when Tanner would look at her with that desperate, searching glint in his eye, when he would lower his voice and extend that offer to take her across the very world. Even when that awful, suffocating envy curdled her blood and spoiled her soul.

What made Tanner her biggest regret was that last day. It was sending him off on a fool’s errand when she could tell his heart was still off chasing those desert ghosts that danced behind his eyes. It was looking that man in the eye and seeing past his bravado, but turning the other way for the sake of her people.

Emily could still recall that forsaken day as if it had been just yesterday.

It had started as a simple, easy morning in town.

The sun was still waking up, winking over the distant horizon and painting Bitterdown in the ethereal misty haze of a new dawn—long, bruised shadows that swallowed up the town and watercolor shades of golden light. The boiling heat hadn’t yet overtaken the air, though the sky was already bleaching out into that pale, unforgiving white blue that promised a blinding afternoon.

Yet, in the early light of dawn, the air was fresh off the nearby towering pines—crisp and clear—biting Emily’s lungs as she looked over the humble town.

A few shopkeepers were already out on the boardwalks, sweeping away the grit that the wind and critters had deposited overnight, their brooms rhythmically scratching against the warped pine. Off in the distance where the sun caught the reflection of Lers lake, a herd of duckbills hummed their low, vibrating morning song—a sound like church organs played underwater, comforting and steady.

It was the kind of morning where a mayor could look out over her territory and believe, if only for an hour, that the peace she had traded her youth for was a tangible, permanent thing.

Emily sat on the well loved rocking chair on the porch of the town hall. She—as usual—had risen before first light; her sandy colored hair already pulled back and secured into a tight bun by the time the warm, nutty smell of Elda’s fresh loaves started carrying over the wind. A cracked mug of chicory coffee warming her palms and an open book resting in her lap.

The young woman had abandoned the novel in favor of watching the dust motes dance in the early light. Her eyes tracking the familiar rhythm that Bitterdown had known for decades, a sense of weary contentment settling over her chest as she watched the first few townspeople exchange quiet pleasantries.

The sun had finally made its way over the ancient timber of the nearby woodland when things changed—not with some sudden bang or shrill shriek, but with a rhythmic, steady thudding.

It wasn't the heavy, earth shattering thud of a wild bull trike, nor the rapid cadence of a hunting creed of Hatzegopteryx trying to take advantage of the groggy townsfolk. It didn’t come with the lazy, tectonic rumble of a tyrant moving through the brush. Instead, it was a light, rapid, synchronized patter—the unmistakable stride of a theropod built for speed, navigation, and a terrifying degree of precision.

Emily rose from her chair, mug still in hand, book now set onto the small stand next to her. She leaned her forearms against the unpainted railing of the porch, her eyes carefully scanning the distant horizon. A small, involuntary smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as the rider rounded the bend by the old water tower—her chest tightened with a sudden, unbidden rush of youth.

Down the main street, past the shuttered livery and the quiet saloons, a beast emerged from the morning mist. The iconic silhouette of a Dilophosaurus and their lone rider. The creature’s brilliant, robust red crests catching the morning light—the same crimson shade of their rider’s bandana, tucked into the collar of their cropped duster, and the custom leather saddle.

Even a child could have immediately recognized the colors of the Boy Wonder.

It was Tanner.

Tanner didn’t ride a standard horse, nor did he ride one of the lumbering, armored trikes that the local cattlemen favored for their stubborn resilience against predators. He rode Bailey. And Bailey was a marvel.

She was magnificent, a towering testament to the ancient world that refused to die. A true native to the wild, unkempt lands of the frontier, a proud Dilophosaurus. The beast was over seven feet tall at the hip and stretched over twenty feet from her snout lined with savage interlocking teeth to the tip of her long tail. Her lean, muscular frame moved with a natural, agile grace through the town, her pace shifting from a steady gait to a slow trot. Her mottled hide of rich, earthy browns and dull acacia greens almost glowing in the low light, her faded scars a mesmerizing web over her skin.

And as always, the sight of the creature was enough to draw a handful of townsfolk to their windows, peering through the slats with a mix of awe and lingering frontier paranoia. A nervous murmur traveling through the people lingering outside storefronts, casting the dynamic duo a cautious glance.

Bailey’s golden eyes shifted over the crowd, tossing her head restlessly and chuffing a low greeting to the town.

Emily’s breath caught in her throat as her gaze shifted from the familiar beast to the fool who had tamed her.

Tanner looked exactly as the territories expected him to look.

The young man was slumped in the stirrups, one hand casually holding the reins while the other rested on his thigh, the picture of effortless, frontier arrogance. His body shifted with a steady, familiar grace that spoke of a life spent in the seat of a saddle.

He wore his sun bleached duster thrown loosely over his slouched shoulders, revealing his brass studded leather vest, the lone silver badge of the Saurboy Guild glinting like a beasts eye on his chest with every step Bailey took—the very badge that marked him as something other than a mere man in the eyes of the territories. His iconic bandana was tucked carefully against his neck, his cattleman’s brimmed hat tilted just low enough to cast his eyes in shadow.

Tanner looked every bit like the Boy Wonder of the West—a living legend carved out of frontier grit and campfire stories.

Emily leaned on one of the support pillars of the porch, her arms crossing over her chest as the man drew within earshot.

“Easy now,” Tanner murmured to his mount, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. “Don't go scaring the locals before they've even had their morning brew.”

Bailey let out a high, warbling trill that sounded absurdly like a purr before she caught sight of Emily on the porch. Within a second the vigilant light in her eye shimmered with a primitive excitement as she let out a soft, bird-like chirrup, her eyes locking onto the mayor. She didn't slow down until she was right over the steps, her feet coming to a halt with a practiced puff of dust.

Immediately, the great beast leaned her snout over the railing, her breath warm and smelling faintly of iron and wild sage—accompanied by a distinct, dinosaur specific musk—and nudged Emily’s shoulder with the force of a gentle sledgehammer.

“Whoa, girl,” Tanner laughed, a sound that brought an immediate, involuntary smile to Emily’s face. His face split in the same boyish grin that had been plastered over countless prints as he turned his attention to the woman, tipping his hat upwards with two fingers, “Morning, madam mayor.”

“Tanner,” Emily greeted, her voice softer than she intended. She stepped down from the porch, the heels of her boots clicking against the wood before sinking into the dust as she ducked beneath Bailey’s head.

He tugged gently on the reins to guide Bailey’s face away from Emily. The beast ignored him with an indignant snort, continuing to press her muzzle against Emily's arm until the mayor chuckled and reached out to scratch the soft skin of her chin.

Bailey let out a low, rumbling click of pure satisfaction, her long tail twitching behind her.

The Boy Wonder grunted as he reached towards the beast’s skull, his gloved hand shoving her head to the side with the practiced ease of a man handling a loyal hound. To the average man, a mature dilophosaur could be a nightmare incarnate—a creature capable of snapping a man’s femur with a single, crushing bite. To Tanner, Bailey was his shadow. His partner. An extension of his very lifeforce.

“See that?” He huffed, giving up on trying to control his mount with a fluid roll of his shoulders, “I raise her from a hatchling, feed her the best cuts of meat, sleep in the freezing mud just so she don’t get lonesome, and the second she sees you, I’m as good as chopped liver.”

“Maybe she just recognizes who actually runs this valley,” Emily challenged, her voice dropping into that familiar, easy rhythm they always found within seconds of seeing each other. She stepped back, smoothing down her skirts, adjusting her silver mayoral sash. “Welcome back to Bitterdown. I didn't expect you until the autumn gathering.”

She looked him up and down as she carefully set her mug down on the railing, out of reach from Bailey’s probing snout. “Last I heard you were supposed to be up north, tracking the migration for the governor’s men.”

Tanner shrugged as he swung his leg over the saddle pommel, dropping down to the earth with a light, springy, raptor like-grace. He looked up, and for a fraction of a second—before the mask slid into place—Emily saw him.

Really saw him.

He looked as though the gravity in Bitterdown was twice as heavy as it was anywhere else in the west. His broad shoulders, usually thrown back with that infamous, reckless bravado, were slightly rounded under his heavy leather duster. The dust of the long trail coated the fabric, but it couldn't hide the way his frame seemed to have shrunk into itself.

Tanner was twenty-six now, but the skin around his temples was cross hatched with lines that belonged to a man twice his age, carved there by the glare of the salt flats and the blinding snow of the northern passes.

Then, he caught her eye, and the transformation was instantaneous. It was like watching a curtain rise on a stage play.

His lips twitched upward into that familiar, lopsided grin—the smile of the Boy Wonder of the West. He dipped his hat in a mocking gesture before flicking it back with his index finger, his brown eyes flashing with a spark that didn't quite reach his soul. His stride instantly adopted that loose, natural swagger that every young saurboy greenhorn tried and failed to mimic.

“Ah, you know how it is,” Tanner drawled, his voice carrying that theatrical, larger than life cadence he used when there were townspeople watching. A few children had slipped from their mother’s sides and gathered by the dry goods store, pointing and whispering at the famous Boy Wonder of the West. Tanner gave them a quick, two finger salute and a wink, making one of the little boys gasp with delight.

“Pardon the crude language, my fair lady,” Tanner grinned, his chest puffing out with a childish arrogance that had made him an icon from the border to the coast. “But the northern governor’s men can go stick a cactus up their ass.”

He walked toward her with that loose, rolling gait, his spurs jingling a merry tune against the quiet morning, stopping a few paces away from her, “A man can only handle so many fat bureaucrats telling him how to corral a herd of duckbills before he needs to see a friendly face.”

The man paused, contemplating Emily with a small frown before shrugging, “Your ugly mug will have to do.”

“Careful, Saurboy,” Emily shot back, her arms crossing over her chest, as she lifted her brows and tilting her chin to look at him down the bridge of her nose. Despite herself she couldn’t help the small, warm swell in her chest and the grin that fought to curl the corners of her mouth. “I can still have the marshal throw you in the tin for disturbing the peace. Riding a prehistoric menace through my streets without a warning? Seems an awful lot like you're looking for trouble.”

“Menace? Bailey?” Tanner gasped, putting a hand over his heart in mock offense. Behind him, as if on cue, the massive dinosaur let out a soft, pathetic whine, resting her chin directly on Tanner’s shoulder, her golden eyes fixed entirely on him with a suffocating, codependent intensity. He scoffed, shaking his head, “She is a lady, Emily. A delicate flower. She’d never hurt a fly. You're breaking her sweet heart with your nasty words.”

Bailey gave a timely, cavernous yawn, displaying rows of ivory teeth, her chin still firmly planted on the young man’s shoulder. Tanner didn’t even bat an eye and the proximity of her open maw, the nearby lingering children all exclaiming at the view of her vicious jaw.

“See? Absolutely heartbroken,” Tanner’s voice was smooth, carrying that easy, practiced drawl that had graced a hundred different saloon bars from here to the salt flats. A beat of silence passed as he took a breath, “You look good, Em. Really good. The fancy desk hasn’t made you soft yet.”

“And you look like you've been dragged through three different mountain ranges backward,” Emily countered, though her tone softened.

“Why, thank you,” Tanner made a show of tossing the loose, brown curls at the base of his neck, narrowly avoiding knocking his hat off in the process, “Jesse says I look devilish when I’ve not had a proper bath in a week.”

Emily couldn't help the small, snorting laugh that escaped her lips, the weight in her own chest lifting if only for a fleeting second. She rolled her eyes, scoffing “Oh, I’m sure he does.”

She closed the short distance between them, stepping close enough to punch him lightly on the arm—it felt like striking a fence post; the boy who had once run wild through the creek beds had turned into something entirely made of sinew, iron, and scar tissue. Tanner caught her hand before it could retreat, pulling her into a brief, tight squeeze that smelled of woodsmoke, old leather, and the wild, untamed ozone of the high country.

When he pulled away, the cocky smirk was still in place, but Emily’s sharp eyes didn't miss the way his gaze flickered toward the horizon, nor the dark, bruised shadows beneath his eyes. She frowned, stepping back and lowering her own voice so it couldn’t be overheard by anyone.

“What are you really doing here, Tanner? You’ve got this look about you,” Emily asked carefully, her tone light, though a small prickle of tension touched her neck as her smile wilted. “Bitterdown’s too far to be a convenient rest stop.”

Tanner shrugged, turning his gaze out over the small town. The streets were officially awake now—a blacksmith’s hammer clinking in the distance, the smell of woodsmoke and frying bacon drifting from the boarding house, the children scampering off to the schoolhouse. “Can't a man just drop by to see his favorite politician? No business. No high-stakes negotiations with the cattle barons. Just... a social call.”

He nodded to himself, his smile easing into something softer, “I had a few days between assignments, and I figured Bitterdown was about due for some culture.”

"Culture," Emily scoffed playfully, but she was watching him closely.

There was a frantic edge to his ease. It was in the way his fingers constantly tapped against the thigh of his trousers, right above his holster. It was in the way his eyes kept scanning the rooftops, the ridge lines, the far horizon—not with the casual curiosity of a visitor, but with the hyper vigilant, exhausted paranoia of a soldier who had forgotten how to exist outside of a war zone.

Emily knew better than to push a man past his limits in the open town walk. She let out a breath, turning towards the door of the town hall.

“Come on,” Emily said softly, the playful edge dropping from her voice just a fraction as she grabbed the cracked mug from where it balanced on the rail. “Let’s get you out of the sun. We can sit down and have a proper talk.”

“Yeah," the Boy Wonder whispered, his voice cracking slightly before he cleared his throat and forced the swagger back into his shoulders as he followed her up the small steps of the porch. “Yeah, that sounds... that sounds real good, Madam Mayor.”

Tanner didn’t bother with words or a gesture; he didn’t even look at the large theropod as he walked away, a distinct, intentional series of his tongue clicks and a low whistle escaping his throat.

Bailey immediately shifted, letting out a low warble, her massive head following his movement, her small, clawed forelimbs twitching as she moved around the steps, walking towards the back of the building. She wasn't tied down—everyone knew better than to try and tether Tanner’s partner—but she was arguably one of the most well behaved mounts Emily had ever met.

They moved into the small, shaded office at the back of the town hall. It was a comfortable room, lined with ledgers, maps of the eastern county Emily presided over, and a massive oak desk that she had inherited from her predecessor.

Outside the far window, Bailey’s large head appeared, her snout pressing against the glass with a wet, heavy thud. She let out a soft huff that fogged up the pane, her eyes locked onto Tanner’s form.

“She really hasn't changed a bit,” Emily mused, forcing a smile as she placed her mug onto the desk and retrieved the kettle she had used for her own brew earlier that morning. “She’s still certain she's a lapdog.”

“She’s worse now,” Tanner muttered as he stepped into the room, casting a brief glance at the window. As he entered the office, the public persona seemed to slip off him like a heavy coat. The bright, confident grin faded, leaving behind lines around his mouth and eyes that belonged to a man ten years older. “If I go into an outhouse for more than five minutes, she starts trying to tear the door off the hinges. The boys at the station think it's hilarious. I think she’s just... she knows.”

Emily paused, her heart skipping a beat and chest tightening at the tone. She managed to keep her brows from furrowing, though the sudden stiffness in her posture exposed her alarm.

She spoke calmly, casually, “Knows what?”

Tanner caught himself, his jaw tightening, pausing as he took off his gloves.

He sighed, tossing his hat and gloves onto the floor beside a chair he seemed eager to claim, running a hand through his messy hair. “Eh, nothing important really. Been having these weird dreams recently, I think it’s got us both feeling a little restless.”

Emily brought over a fresh mug of coffee, handing it to him, rolling the phrase over in her mind before she broke her silence with a small hum, “Dreams?”

Tanner accepted the mug with a devout reverence, his head bobbing with an easy, dismissive nod. He gave her a weak, lopsided smile that didn't reach his eyes.

“Yeah, I think the heat’s been getting to me. The sun’s getting hotter every year, I swear. Or maybe I’m just getting old.” He mused, taking a sip of the coffee. Tanner all but collapsed into the heavy oak chair across from Emily’s desk, letting his long legs stretch out across the floorboards, his boots clicking against the hardwood floor. He let out a long, shuddering sigh that seemed to vibrate through his entire lean frame.

“Freyda above, Emily,” he murmured, his voice dropping low, as he shifted in the chair, resting the back of his head against the backrest and closing his eyes, “You have no idea how good it is to just sit still for a second.”

Sometimes, looking back on it, Emily wondered if that was the moment that sealed his fate. If, perhaps, had she not just let the mention of strange dreams float off into the back of her mind it would have changed how the day went.

But in that moment, without that foresight, Emily took the weak dismissal as a sign to back off a sensitive topic. She sat on the edge of the desk, looking down at her childhood friend. The silence between them stretched, thick and heavy, filled only by the distant sounds of the town and Bailey’s occasional, wet breaths against the windowpane.

When Tanner broke the silence with a comment on the coffee, things fell back into place. For a few minutes, it was perfect. It was a return to the days when they were just kids dreaming of the world beyond the horizon. Tanner spun tall tales of his travels—how he’d outsmarted a posse of rogues at the Abbey river crossing, how the guild masters back in the capital were getting more foolish by the year—and Emily told him about the mundane, ridiculous trials of running a frontier town, from disputes over fencing to the time a stray pachycephalosaur had smashed through the bakery window.

Tanner laughed and teased her, he called her “Your Excellency” and “The Great Dictator of Bitterdown,” playing the part of the arrogant, cunning, hopeful boy she had known to absolute perfection. He acted young. He acted like a man without a care in the world, a man whose spirit was as bright and unworn as the silver badge pinned to his leather vest.

Emily knew him.

She had seen him when he was fourteen, a terrified, brilliant feral child who had been thrust into a world of men, guns, and monsters. And as the morning wore on, as the shadows on the floor shifted and the coffee pots grew cold, the cracks began to show.

Every time the door creaked, Tanner’s hand twitched toward the heavy caliber revolver strapped to his thigh. When a wagon rattled loudly down the street outside, his jaw clenched so hard the muscles bunched in his cheek. The bravado began to peel away like cheap paint, revealing the weathered, exhausted soul underneath.

“Tanner,” Emily said quietly, eventually cutting through his latest rambling anecdote about a clumsy greenhorn. Her mind was still caught on a single, almost unimportant detail that was still nagging in the back of her mind.

He paused, blinking once and shifting in the chair casually, “Yeah, Em?”

The young woman narrowed her eyes slightly, tilting her head, “What are you doing here?”

There was a brief, sharp look in Tanner’s brown eyes before it vanished under the light of a forced smile, “Told you. Wanted to see if you’d finally grown an inch. See how the folks around here are holding up.”

“Tanner, don't,” she hissed, her voice dropping to a level, serious tone that usually made merchants squirm. She leaned forward, her brows furrowing, watching every twitch he made, “You didn't ride three days down from the northern territories just to mock my height. You look like you haven't slept since the spring thaw. Something’s wrong. Is it the guild? Is it your brother? Jesse? Talk to me.”

Tanner didn't move for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the half empty mug in his hand. Then, slowly, he looked back up at Emily, but the warmth was entirely gone from his face. His eyes were bloodshot, the gaze flat and dangerously hollow. It was the face of the man who had tracked down and slaughtered the red ridge raiders, who brought mad tyrants to the ground with a single, well placed shot.

It wasn't her Tanner.

She was looking at the Boy Wonder of the West.

The real one. Not the one they wrote about in the papers and whispered about over weary campfires. It wasn’t the man who was the shining beacon of hope in the west, who dreamed big and always had a witty retort on the tip of his tongue.

It was the Boy Wonder who had killed men, who didn’t know when to stop, who tamed the wild great beasts of the frontier and ended the ones that didn’t bow to his whim.

“Nothing’s wrong, Madam Mayor,” the young man insisted, his voice entirely devoid of its earlier inflection, smooth and cold as river ice. “Just tired. The trail’s long. Quit looking for ghosts where there ain’t any.”

Emily didn’t look away, she held those stormy brown eyes, her stubbornness refusing to let her back down.

“I'm not looking for ghosts, I'm looking at you,” she pressed, her hands flat against the oak desk as her heart aching at the sheer wall he was throwing up. Her own selfish spark of anger flaring in her stomach, “You’re… you’re cracking, Tanner. I can see it. You can't keep carrying the weight of the whole damn West on your shoulders. Let me help you. Just tell me what happened.”

Tanner let out a short, sharp bark of a laugh that made Emily flinch. It was bitter, spiteful, and entirely uncharacteristic, his face twisting into a sneer. “Help me? With what, Emily? You want to balance my ledgers? You want to ride a thousand pound predator into the sunset on my behalf?”

The man reached down, setting his mug onto the floor and swiping his hat up in one fluid movement. He lowered the leather onto his head, keeping it tilted low, the shadows giving his eyes a predatory glow from where the light from the windows reflected off of them.

“You don't know anything about my life,” he growled, eyes narrowed into a harsh glare, “You sit in this nice little office, playing queen of your little dirt pile, completely blind to what it actually takes to keep your precious town content. You don't know what I’m dealing with, you don't want to know, and I’m not keen on sharing. So just leave it alone.”

The harshness of his words hung in the air like a foul odor.

Emily knew she should have swallowed her anger, that she should have recognized that the attack was because he was hurting and lashing back would only make it worse.

Instead, Emily felt a familiar, fiery pang in her chest. She looked away, out toward the main street where the sun was now hitting the dirt, turning it to gold. She thought of her own shackles that she had locked around her soul with her own hands. The title she was meant to uphold, the expectation of keeping the branch from devolving into chaos. And that awful, sickening envy slithered in her gut, leaving her insides feeling greasy and her breath sour.

Tanner was the wild wind. He was the one who could simply whistle, climb onto the back of a prehistoric hunter, and vanish into the red rock canyons whenever the world became too loud.

Emily lashed right back out at him, her voice cracking the heavy silence of the office like a gunshot.

“Don't you dare look down on me from that saddle, Tanner!” she hissed, standing up fully and stepping away from the desk, her face pale with a mixture of fury and deep, aching hurt. “You call this a dirt pile? You call what I do playing queen?”

She searched his cold, unwavering gaze, her voice cracking as she continued, her hands clenched into white knuckles fists. “I gave up my youth so these people wouldn't starve. I traded every dream I ever had to build a place where children can walk down the street without being torn apart by the things you ride! And you come in here, throwing your own pity party because something didn’t go your way and you got your ego bruised?”

Emily paused, her jaw tight, her shoulders trembling slightly with the mounting frustration of watching a man tear himself apart and being unable to stop him. Her tone dropped into something colder, as she shook her head, a forced, brittle laugh escaping her, “Oh, I forgot, it’s dreams right? You're moping because you had a nightmare?”

Tanner flinched, his jaw tightening so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek. The predatory glare in his eyes flickered, replaced by something raw and deeply wounded.

Emily should have stopped—but there was a sick satisfaction in finally getting to let herself bubble over the edge, to lash out at the very thing that tormented her with the thoughts of what could have been.

“You are selfish, Tanner. Selfish, arrogant, and so incredibly entitled,” Emily pressed on, the venom of years of suppressed envy and worry spilling over. “An ungrateful man who acts like a dangerous, feral child because he’s terrified of what happens when the campfire stories stop. You’re too busy trying to outrun your own shadow and your responsibilities to realize that the people who love you are drowning trying to keep up with you. You need to just grow up!”

The words slammed into him, and for a second, the legendary Boy Wonder of the West looked entirely hollowed out. The effortless swagger vanished. He looked at her, his lips parted slightly, his eyes wide and deeply, undeniably hurt. He looked less like a hardened saurboy and more like the fourteen year old boy she had met in the mud all those years ago.

Silence flooded the room, heavy and suffocating. Outside, Bailey let out a low, mournful rumble against the glass, sensing the shift in her partner’s spirit, her tail dragging in the dirt outside.

Emily opened her mouth to push further, to demand that he look at her, to break through that armored shell he had spent over a decade forging. She could see the cracks. She could see the terrifying pressure building up behind his eyes, the absolute certainty that he was standing on the edge of a precipice.

Before Tanner could reply, before Emily had a chance to take back the harsh words she had spat because of her own envy, the reality of her own position crashed back into the room.

The door to the office burst open, and Deputy Miller stood there, breathing heavily, his face pale beneath his sweat stained hat.

“Madam Mayor,” Miller panted, gripping the doorframe, a wild, frantic look in his eye, he didn’t seem to notice her company, entirely fixated on the woman who was vibrating with a dangerous edge. The man stumbled over his words at a rapid, desperate pace “It’s- it’s happened again. Southeastern homestead. Said it came… came out of the brush, slaughtered a dozen head of cattle, took… it took old man Higgins and his wife and Ava nearly lost her arm. Didn’t eat a single one of em, ma’am. Just… slaughter them. It’s the Tyrant. The mad one.”

Emily’s stomach plummeted, her lungs seizing in her chest.

For the past three months, the easterners—those mysterious, unseen architects who lived beyond the monolith stone wall that divided the continent—had been doing something to that mighty wall of theirs. They never spoke to the westerners, they didn't trade—aside from the occasional blinding light from atop the barrier or strange, unnatural sound echoing from their side, there was no evidence to suggest there was even life on the other side.

No one had ever seen anyone from the East.

But the furthest townsfolk could hear the deep, thudding machinery from miles away, a sound that shook the teeth in their skulls. And ever since the noise had started, the great predators of the deep woodlands—the Tyrannosaurs Rex, the true tyrants of the wild—had been driven down into the valleys.

This was different. This wasn't just a displaced hunter looking for territory. This was a tyrant with the brain rotting sickness that occasionally cropped up in the wilds—a form of madness that turned a seven ton apex predator into a mindless, aggressive engine of destruction that knew no fear and felt no pain.

Emily’s heart raced in her chest like a frantic bird throwing itself at the walls of its cage, crashing into her ribs over and over. Bitterdown didn't have the firepower to kill a rogue Tyrant. If it breached the town proper, it would be a massacre. She looked at Miller, then slowly, almost automatically, her gaze shifted to Tanner.

He was sitting perfectly still, watching her. The cold, dangerous look in his eyes had intensified. He knew exactly what she was about to do.

The silence in the room sharpened, stretching until it felt like a razor’s edge between them. Deputy Miller was still wheezing by the door, his terrified gaze finally snapping toward the corner of the room, his eyes widening as he recognized the sun bleached duster and the silver badge of the Saurboy Guild.

Emily felt the blood drain from her face, the fiery anger that had consumed her only seconds ago evaporating into a cold, hollow dread. She looked at Tanner.

The Boy Wonder didn’t move. He sat slouched in the heavy oak chair, his hat tilted low, but the shadow couldn’t hide the terrifying, dead expression on his face. Any semblance of vulnerability she had managed to pierce through was gone, buried under a mountain of bitter, icy spite.

“Tanner…” Emily started, her voice suddenly trembling, the words catching in her dry throat. The disgust she had felt for her own envy turned into a desperate, pleading knot in her stomach. “Tanner, please. The southeastern homestead… there are families out there. Ava…”

Tanner didn't move. He didn't blink. He just stared at her, and in that moment, Emily saw the last remnants of the boy she loved completely vanish.

Emily steeled herself, sucking in a breath, and stepped toward him, reaching out a hand. “The town needs you. If that Tyrant stays in the area, we won't survive the week. You’re the only one who knows how to handle a rogue beast of that size.”

Slowly, a gradual, terrifyingly cruel smile spread across Tanner’s lips. It didn't reach his eyes, which remained as dead and sharp as flint.

He didn’t look at Deputy Miller. He kept his hollow, bloodshot eyes fixed entirely on Emily.

“It’d be my pleasure” Tanner drawled, his voice dropping into a dangerously smooth, quiet rasp that made the hairs on the back of Emily’s neck stand up. He adjusted the brim of his hat with one finger. He reached down, scooping up his gloves as he shook his head, “I’m The Boy Wonder after all. The great protector of the weak. How silly of me to think I could just sit and have a cup of coffee. The realm cries out for its hero.”

“Tanner, don’t do this,” Emily whispered, stepping toward him, her hand reaching out instinctively once more, but she froze when his gaze flicked down to her fingers.

“Don’t do what, Madam Mayor?” Tanner spat, the venom in his voice sharp enough to draw blood. He paused to pull his gloves on, using his teeth to secure the thin strap of leather that kept them from getting loose on his wrist.

The deputy looked between the two of them, as if he was only now realizing the tension in the room and taking an instinctive step away from the two clashing fronts.

“If there was anyone else—” Emily started, hating the way her voice sounded—so reasonable, so administrative.

“But there isn't anyone else, is there? There’s never anyone else in this Freyda damned place,” Tanner interrupted, swinging his legs out and standing up in one fluid, menacing movement, his smile gone. He towered over her, his presence suddenly suffocating, radiating with a cold, coiled fury.

“You’re all the same. You sit in your little towns, throwing your little festivals, playing at civilization, and the moment a big bad dinosaur shows up, you beg the Saurboy to go fix it,” he hissed, his eyes flashing with a dangerous, deeply wounded light. “You don't care if I'm tired. You don't care if I'm bleeding out through my boots. Just go kill the monster, Tanner. Be a good little dog.”

“That is unfair and you know it!” Emily snapped, her own anger flaring through the guilt. “I am trying to save lives, Tanner! I have a responsibility to this town!”

“I don’t care,” Tanner cut her off, his voice suddenly turning dead, flat, and chillingly indifferent.

He pulled back, adjusting his hat, the boy wonder persona sliding back over his face like a grotesque, mocking mask. He gave her a sharp, mocking bow.

“Consider your Tyrant handled,” the young man turned his back and walked past the trembling deputy, “I'll go play the hero one last time. Try not to choke on your own self righteousness while I'm gone."

He didn't look back at her, but he paused at the door.

“Deputy,” Tanner muttered, his tone scarily professional. “Tell the townsfolk to bar their doors and stay inside. I’ll handle the Tyrant.”

“Tanner, wait!” Emily cried out, a mix of anger and desperation choking her tone as she rushed around the desk. The young woman reached out and caught the sleeve of his heavy duster. “Let me send the marshal’s men with you. You can't face a mad tyrant alone, not like this. Not when you’re…”

Not when you're breaking, she wanted to say. But the words died in her throat.

Tanner ripped his arm away from her grip with a violent, spurning twist of his shoulders. He turned his head just enough for her to see the cold, bitter sneer painted across his face.

“Touch me again, and I’ll let the damn thing march right down main street,” he growled, a low, huffy breath escaping his nose. “Keep your hands off me, Emily. Keep your men in their holes. They’d only get in Bailey’s way, and frankly, I’m sick of cleaning up after cowards.”

He stepped out of the office, his spurs jingling a solitary, haunting rhythm against the floorboards.

“Tanner!” Emily shouted, throwing herself onto the porch. “Tanner just- just wait!”

The midday sun was blinding now, baking the dust of Bitterdown into a harsh, golden glare. Down below, Tanner didn't hesitate. He gave a sharp, piercing whistle—a sound that echoed off the wooden storefronts and sent a shiver through the lingering townsfolk.

From around the corner of the building, Bailey exploded into motion. The massive Dilophosaurus didn't warble or purr this time; she sensed the lethal, chaotic tempest radiating from her rider. Her brilliant red crests flushed a deep, angry crimson as she lowered herself so he could reach the first stirrup. She let out a piercing, reptilian screech that silenced every bird in the valley, her interlocking teeth bared to the sun.

Tanner grabbed the saddle horn and swung himself into the leather seat with a fluid, practiced motion. He didn't look at the children who scrambled away in terror. He didn't look at the windows where the townsfolk peered out.

And he didn’t look back at Emily, who stood frozen on the town hall porch, clutching the unpainted railing so hard her splinters tore into her palms.

With a sharp dig of his heels and a low, guttural click of his tongue, Tanner turned Bailey toward the southeastern trail. The great theropod leaped forward, her powerful, muscular legs digging deep gouges into the dirt road, kicking up a blinding cloud of dust that swallowed the iconic silhouette of the cropped duster and the red bandana.

—

Songs:

-Broken crown— Mumford & sons

-Would you be impressed?— Streetlight Manifesto

-Hell’s coming with me— Poor man’s poison

-Poor George— James Supercave

-Roaring 20’s— Panic! At the disco

-Ofelia— Kiltro

-Lovers— Kiltro

-Everything Moves— Bronze Radio Return

-Glitter & Gold— Barns Courtney

—

Songs:

-Don’t do sadness/Blue wind— John Gallagher Jr & Lauren Pritchard: this is a song I image as a duet with Tanner and Emily.

-I’m still here (Jim’s Theme)— John Rzeznik

-Sound the bugle— Bryan Adams

-I am the one— Next to Normal cast: this one also has some Danny in it. And either Emily or Samantha. I’ve not decided.

-Babel— Mumford & sons

-Hopeless wanderer— Mumford & sons

-Below my feet— Mumford & sons

-Rushmere— Mumford & sons

-A sadness runs through him— The Hoosiers

-Hallelujah— Panic! At the disco

-Shut eye— Stealing sheep

-Homebody Modifications— Everybody’s worried about Owen

-Me and Julio down by the schoolyard— Paul Simon

-All American Boy— Steve Grand: this isn’t about anyone in particular. Kinda. Sorta. There are a few options. But gay cowboy song lets goooo

— — — — —

— — — — —

I’m putting Bailey’s playlist here because… she has like two songs and it’s easier this way. Her stuff almost always involves Tanner so it works.

Songs:

-Get off of my back— Bryan Adams

—

There is admittedly not as many country songs as you’d think on these playlists

Also, really quick disclaimer. Songs will overlap with other characters from my transformers playlists because… I actually stole some concepts and vibes from these guys for them.

Danny

Tanner

Golden Gabby (and her sisters)

Jasper

—

—

And now I have general series music because we love ambience….

Or they belong to characters but there isn’t enough songs for them to have their own album so they get put here.

Songs:

-creature— half • alive

-God’s Whisper— Raury

-Devil’s Whisper— Raury

-Willow tree march— The paper kites

-Dear fellow traveller— Sea wolf

-Where no one goes— Jónsi & John Powell

-Test Flight— John Powell

-Home— Dotan

-Home II— Dotan

-Friends in low places— Garth Brooks

-The Chain— Fleetwood Mac

-Kings & Queens— Thirty Seconds to mars

-500 miles— Peter, Paul & Mary

-Ends of the Earth— Lord Huron

-Lover of the light— Mumford & sons

-Dream— Priscilla Ahn

—

::Creature design ground rules::

Really quick clarification, this is for the universe that I’ve created where I’ve mashed a bunch of time periods together because I can do what I want, artistic liberties, and you can’t stop me. If you don’t like it, leave. If you have questions, ask. I’m always open to brainstorming or discussing this stuff and think it’s important to get other opinions and feedback.

I just want everyone to know that I’m not aiming for perfect scientific accuracy. Nor does this reflect what I personally believe they looked like in real life… for the most part.

I will, however, try to not get too bizarre or stray too much from what I understand of modern reconstructions and try to keep things scientifically plausible. I won’t be having any dinosaurs be changed or drastically altered like they do in the Jurassic park movies, like the Dilophosaurus or Velociraptor. But I will use artistic liberties to adjust a few things.

For those who don’t know, the dilophosaurus in the Jurassic park movies are very scientifically inaccurate. Not only do they not spit or have those frills, but they are actually much larger. The movie version is around the size of a large-medium sized dog. In all reality Dilophosaurus would have been around the size of a bear. They were around 20 feet long and 6 feet tall at the hip, averaging at around an estimated 600-900 pounds.

Now, in my universe, the Dilophosaurus are a bit larger, they would average closer to 7 feet at the hip and be around 23-24 feet long. Which would increase their weight to something around 800-1,100 pounds. This is so they can carry a person more comfortably. Is this inaccurate? Yes. But it has a purpose in the story. Could I have used a different dinosaur instead? I mean probably, but I can do what I want. There’s nothing stopping me from playing around.

Who knows, maybe these people are actually just shorter.

All that said, while I’ll be changing some things like the size, I will not be adding any unreasonable tissue or features to these dinosaurs—like those stupid frills—that just don’t make sense. To any of them. At the end of the day I still want these creatures to be recognizable for what they really are. I may add a fleshy comb or extra skin in places for mating displays—there is nothing that denies that these existed and considering how bizarre modern animals and birds are, having these features are actually feasible.

Once again I’ll be trying to keep these adjustments all on the believable side, the animals should still be recognizable, they just may be flashier or differ from some other reconstructions of them.

Another note on a “paleo nerds get heated about this topic” that the media has grabbed and refused to let go.

Feathers.

Yes. Dinosaurs had feathers.

But for many large theropods—like the Tyrannosaurus rex—full plumage has been debunked. They likely had feathers or a kind of protofeather down when they were younger but they outgrew it as they aged. It would be a nuisance to maintain and care for feathers when you're that big. This does vary depending on species though.

Likewise, my Dilophosaurus don’t have feathers as adults, they have primitive quills and that same protofeather but very short and kinda… think hairless cat. They have very thin and scattered fuzz. Translucent.

—

::Dinosaur communication::

One thing I also want to clarify right off the bat. In this universe, despite the fact that I write in the dinosaurs pov a few times, they do not have a direct communication method like humans do with speech.

They do not talk. They do not have a “dinosaur language.”

They gesture, make noises, and use hormones and scents to communicate broad concepts. They are animals. They will have simpler thoughts, emotions, and understandings of the world.

That being said, not all dinosaurs have the same “language” if you will. While there will be some universal gestures that would be unanimous amongst species—example, growling is a bad sound no matter the species—a lot of the more nuanced expressions are specific to species or family. They can still perceive and interpret other species' body language, but that is due to pattern recognition, association, general predator and prey responses, and experience.

It's with that skill that dinosaurs that have been tamed and exposed to people—similar to dogs and other intelligent animals—that they can learn human words to an extent. They rely on tones and body language to determine mood and meaning, then can be trained to respond to specific words.

It’s the Pavlovian theory, they associate this specific sound (word) or gesture with a command for a specific response. Like training dogs or horses.

For clarity's sake when I write in a dinosaur pov you will be given the full sentence of human speech (unless the dinosaur has never been around people) this is just to make the story a bit easier to follow. But the dinosaur will not react to what they are really saying unless they have learned that word.

One day I’ll make a separate sheet on body language for the Dilophosaurus, which would apply to extended relatives in the Dilophosauridae family—such as the Dracovenator—and a lot of these gestures would expand into the Coelophysoidea (which there is a whole speculative debate on if dilophosaurus actually belong to that family) and a few of the looser concepts would apply to the even broader group of Neotheropoda.

But just know that they don’t have a language and gestures between species will vary.

—

::Taming and domesticating dinosaurs::

You're absolutely right. I will have rules on what dinosaurs my own character (or someone else’s oc that wants to be considered canon) can have as a companion.

Yes, yes, get out the pitchforks and pitch your hissy fits right now. Throw your tomatoes and boo me all you want. Call me a hypocrite for all I care when half of this is me preaching about artistic liberty and not restricting creativity. I mean I’m mushing all these time periods together, why am I being nit picky about what dinosaur can befriend a human.

For those who are familiar with my transformers project, I legitimately hate making rules that trap or limit people’s creativity. Especially when I have a world like this where I’m intentionally designing it so there are plenty of opportunities for people to make their own ocs that can exist in canon to the left of the main story line. This is meant to be open and accessible.

But if I don’t set rules then we end up like Star Wars. We will break unspoken in-universe rules—like bringing palpatine back—that contradicts the story and logic. It makes the media unappealing and chaotic.

What are my rules for if your character can have a dinosaur or not? Well, I personally believe they are pretty simple.

-They need to be a social animal

-Size and diet

-Predation

-Purpose

I’m going to elaborate on these really quickly, if you have any questions feel free to ask and I will try to explain this better.

First up, socialization.

The dinosaur or prehistoric creature (since this applies to pterosaurs as well) has to have a flock, herd, pack, or some sort of family group level socialization to be on the list for possible companions.

A solitary animal will not seek human company and will not fully process human intervention as something that benefits them. Most of the dinosaurs are Tamed, not Domesticated, which means they are just as wild as the ones outside of town. These ones have just been taught manners and have learned that in some way, having a relationship with a human is beneficial.

Which means they need to already have the temperament and social needs that demands that sort of interaction between individuals. If an animal is perfectly capable of hunting and providing for itself—especially when it’s a predator—why should it listen to man?

Providing food isn’t enough. In a dangerous situation or during a shortage you need to have a reason why this animal is either going to stick its neck out for you or stick around. Companionship (for most predators) or safety (for prey species). It needs to view the human as an equal or greater force in their life that’s valuable.

Next, size and Diet.

This is pretty simple. Why don’t we have pet wolves? Or bears? Or elephants? Or whales? Because they eat a lot. How is your character providing that much food given their situation in the west? How are they providing the space, housing, and social needs for the animal?

With the whale argument and orcas. We literally kidnap them from the ocean. They cannot leave. They will get depressed and die. A dinosaur can just walk over your barbed wire fence.

Dinosaurs had a different metabolism from what we understand, but the point still stands that you can’t have a sauropod as a pet. It is just too big to contain, feed, and manage. Especially because they likely migrated and lived in herds. So you wouldn’t just be feeding one sauropod, you would be feeding at least three so your one sauropod wouldn’t get sad by itself.

The dinosaur in question has to have a reason to not eat you and frolic into the sunset or to just walk out to go eat grass in your neighbors yard because you have no grass left. Likewise, how are you getting the meat to feed your Tyrannosaurus rex so it doesn’t start looking at your neighbor's horse like it’s a snack? You can’t have a huge animal unless you have the space and resources to deal with it.

A character like Danny who owns a large ranch where he rears his own sources of meat can host a larger population of Dilophosaurus because he has the resources he needs. He makes the money to keep the property through selling those dilophosaurus. A miner or merchant can’t own a dilophosaurus because that requires buying an extensive amount of meat and food. They may own a herbivore that they can set out to graze, but that also means they need to give them the time to do so. (And have the space for it)

Next up, Predation.

This is another very simple rule. The dinosaur should not look at a human and see a snack.

Now, for some pack oriented species you could raise from a young age alongside humans and they wouldn’t think humans are a food source. I did the same thing with my freshwater angelfish. When he was small I kept him with a group of guppies and other small fish, he was too tiny to eat them at the time and it adjusted him to their company. He was well fed so he never had a reason to go after these fish and so when he got big enough to eat them he didn’t associate them as a food source despite the fact that angelfish will hunt and eat smaller fish.

What I’m saying is basically, there is a very specific middle ground of dinosaurs that would naturally hunt humans, especially in a universe where they evolved alongside them. Most large pterosaurs are off the table for being a companion. I’m just putting that out there. In this universe they are natural predators of man, to the point where I have designed towns to have anti-pterosaur mechanisms in place.

I break this rule with a single character that gets to have a toothless and hiccup bit but that’s the only one. I’m a hypocrite. Sorry. I just wanted to have a cool character. I swear they aren’t overpowered in any way shape or form.

I’m just a gatekeeping snob.

This does, however, open the stage up for a lot of larger theropods to be considered since they are big enough that a human is a waste of energy to actually hunt.

Finally, why.

This is objectively the easiest to understand but also the most interesting and important parts of taming an animal. Up until now it’s all been about the animal and why they should stick around or not kill a human. Now we get to flip it around. Why should a human put the effort, time, and energy into maintaining this animal?

They could have a domesticated version of a raptor as a companion pet but for a lot of the bigger dinosaurs that are just tamed, we need a reason why. Is it for show? A passion? For their work? Do they use them to hunt or to defend their land? Is it for food? Just ask yourself some questions like that and figure out why they would want to have a dinosaur and why they would want that specific species of dinosaur as well. They would need something that suits their profession or need. You don’t get a pug as a livestock guardian dog, you don’t use a Cane Corso as a herding dog.

Just give the reason why the human has the dinosaur and why it’s that particular species.

—

::Dilophosaurus Pack dynamics::

Okay, now I’m getting into some more specific world building real quick.

I also mention packs at several points with Dilophosaurus, at the time I originally drafted this world and its concepts (which was… geez, 2021?) I was still under the impression that these guys were pack hunters, or at least family group hunters. Since then they’ve been dubbed solitary hunters due to a study that discovered they actually had a much stronger bite force than originally thought that would allow them to actually hunt alone.

This messes up some world building since—as I established earlier—the only dinosaurs I’ll let humans tame are ones that rely or function in a pack or family group structure. Scientists argue Dilophosaurus don’t fall into those categories.

Well then Quibble, why are you mentioning this flaw? Are you establishing rules only to immediately break them?

To put it simply,dear reader, all of that is speculation. Do we truly know if they hunted in packs? No. Do we know for certain that they were solitary? Nope. You see where I’m going here?

—

Now, I know that for the most part social structures with theropods are very controversial and almost always speculation. Doesn’t that mean people can argue against the rules you set in stone?

Yeah, it does.

I will try to make separate documents that go over different dinosaur groups that I believe are an exception as well as explain ones that I agree with. But this is also me inviting anyone who stumbles across this to pitch me an argument for why you think a certain species is social. If you want a species to be on the social list so your oc can pal around with them give me a reason. Make the social structure.

One of the reasons why I love when the media plays around with dinosaur concepts and actually puts thoughts into it is because at the end of the day there is so much speculation here. It leaves a lot of space for people to play around with concepts and ideas, especially in a universe that won’t have the scientific community (ideally) down your back because this is fantasy.

Do some research, send an ask, tell me how they are social. Explain and yap away to your heart's content.

Don’t just argue, give me a solution.

I’ll give you the example with my dilophosaurus arguement.

—

So, mini heart to heart out of the way. What am I proposing?

Look at what Jaguars have going on. They are all technically solitary animals, but a male’s territory will overlap over three to four females’ territories. They only drive other males away. The females tolerate the male for the most part.

But I want to take it a step further. If we look at cheetah dynamics the males actually hunt in small coalitions of two to four members while the females are solitary to raise cubs. Likewise, though slightly different circumstances, male lions are known to coexist in the same pride with a dominant male.

Where am I going with this?

While these are felines and not descendants of dinosaurs, birds have flocks and several raptors are known to hunt in mated pairs and in one instance a family group. Now, what I’m putting together here has absolutely no scientific backing. Nor is it necessarily how I believe these animals acted in real life. This is technically a fantasy setting.

What I’m suggesting isn’t a typical pack dynamic. I think that females and males would hunt in separate groups. Male packs—led by a dominant male and either his brothers or sons—would patrol a larger territory that extended over smaller female groups.

The male packs can vary in size, anything from 3 to 8 individuals depending on their relation (brothers tend to fight less due to preestablished hierarchy from when they first hatched, so they typically have larger numbers) But, the males operate separately. They do not stick together all the time, they have a lot of ground to cover so they will split up to patrol borders, keep rival males out, and hunt alone. They will cross paths, nest together during off-seasons (the winter when food is more scarce and body heat is important) but for most of the year they act alone.

Female groups of dilophosaurus are considerably smaller, they are usually two females, possibly three depending on resources. It’s usually a driving or dominant female and her daughters. There can be stray or lone females though. They are also traditionally the more aggressive and territorial of the sexes due to the fact that they have more mouths to feed (their hatchlings)

The matriarch will often kill competing female’s clutches—including the clutches of the other females in her party—to assert that her offspring are fed and cared for first. Which is why most submissive females either don’t mate or find alternative solutions, such as deception. They will lay their clutch in the same nest so the dominant female assumes they are her own and tends to them.

But, these smaller female groups make it possible for one female to hunt while the other watches over hatchlings. And the matriarch is typically the oldest and most experienced of the group and has the skills and power to protect and maintain the territory and hatchlings. The other females will hunt while she basically assumes the male role from a lion pride. But it’s that offered protection that keeps the submissive females compliant.

Another note, leading male dilophosaurus are known to drive out problematic females (that frequently cross borders to kill other clutches) off their territory to invite more submissive females to stay. They will also drive more desirable females towards the center of their larger territory, essentially keeping them and their clutches safer from rival males.

Likewise, female dilophosaurus—usually the matriarch of a party—will get very particular about courtship and will drive out, refuse mating, and or kill males that they see as unfit/undesirable. Aka, they will be killed if they are ugly or seen as too weak. Females they will also move the location of their party to new grounds if they don’t like a change in the male packs.

—

Edit: I realize I somehow missed the last paragraph of this??? It has been added back in.