Orion Pendleton never enjoyed this whole angry crash-out thing. Shimmer’s bubblegum vibes were hardly helping, nor was the sequined, colorful crowd of various supernaturals and humans that pressed in around him, sticky and deafening. He was the kind of homebody that should have been crying his way through a whole box of tissues with a few bottles of wine while his favorite cartoon played very, very quietly on his laptop.

Instead, he had his fist wrapped around a hard cider and an empty shot glass brushing against his knuckle. His gaze kept flicking toward the double doors across the small room, though the rainbow of laser lights and dizzying spotlights made it hard for him to see any faces as folks arrived. Some of the shortcomings of his elk vision were offset by his thick, blue-tinted faux-wood glasses, but the colors in here were still pretty crazy to him, pushing back the darkness in the club and intensifying the light sources. Even on their own, Shimmer’s lighting made Orion look a little more glamorous than he usually did with his lumberjack-goth aesthetic, making his handmade gold jewelry glint like sparks in a bonfire.

When his phone buzzed on the bar, he glanced down to see his old roommate’s name pop up. Edie Thorn was the whole reason he’d agreed to come out to the hellish club he’d stopped frequenting when he’d surpassed 24. Her infectious energy tended to bring Orion out of his shell, and she knew he needed a pick-me-up.

Orion groaned, dropped his forehead onto his palm, and shoved his phone into his pocket. This is it, he thought. I’m never talking to anyone ever, effing, again.

He was still reeling from the sudden closure of his passion project, having sent his handful of employees home for the last time mere hours ago. It was all dreadfully wrong to be freshly twenty-six and facing down the ruins of the life he thought he would have.

And now Edie was ditching him. Orion’s tattoo shop wasn’t far from Shimmer. If he weren’t already halfway deep into this cider, he’d be better off ditching the club and getting some fillers on his fine arts sleeve. Maybe some script that read…

She’d love that.

Orion clenched his fist around his cider, brought it to his lips, and downed the glass in two large gulps. He flagged the bartender on his end of the crowded bar, whose obvious interest in him brought the small satyr rushing over to him with an attentive smile.

After he ordered, they giggled and said, “That’s the most solemn I’ve ever heard someone order three flaming absinthe shots, but coming right up.” They grabbed the bright green bottle and moved back to light them using a bespelled wand that shot a controlled burst of fire. He frowned at the fourth one that the bartender prepared until he saw them return and keep it in front of themself.

“This is gonna mess me up,” the satyr giggled.

Orion smiled tightly. No more did he want to bond with the bartender than Edie’s blind date. Yet he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to shake the attention of the person who was going to get him so drunk he forgot everything he was pissed about.

He picked up the first shot, let the bartender rather violently clink their slender glasses together, and then slammed it back. The heat, the complex herbal taste… he felt the first twinge of any feeling besides numb disbelief that he’d had all day. Unfortunately, all the shot did was sharpen the dull migraine of his anger into a spear.

Orion fished his phone out from his corduroys, shot off an annoyed text about his problems to Edie, then snatched up his second flaming absinthe and sent it down his throat. He hissed, pinching the bridge of his nose to stifle a wave of vertigo.

“Too much, too fast, idiot,” he muttered, although it occurred to him that he wasn’t just talking about his drinking. With a sigh, he pushed off the barstool to stand. As usual, his sturdy form and antlers on his brow cleared a wide space around him. That wasn’t exactly ideal for crushing himself in an undulating mass of dancing, but eventually his environment would assimilate. He was patient.

“And dizzy.” He swayed, steadying himself on the countertop.

“You good, big fella?” the bartender asked, tapping his knuckles. “I won’t charge you for the third one. Skip it, alright? I know stress-drinking when I see it.”

“Yeah, maybe. Alright. How embarrassing.” He chuckled. “I don’t do liquor much anymore…” Wasn’t he thinking how he didn’t need to canoodle with the bartender tonight?

The satyr’s light-brown features fell. “I wasn’t trying to canoodle.”

“Oh gods!” Orion cried. “Did I say that out loud?”

They smiled sadly, swiping the absinthe shot off the bar and extinguishing the flame with a frosty fingertip. Dumping the drink into the drain, they turned away with slumped shoulders.

“Dammit Orion!” He gripped his left antler—the one he usually abused—and gave his head a shake. Then, stumbling, he pushed his way onto the dance floor as he whipped off his flannel and tied it around his waist. The cut-up sleeveless shirt underneath showed half his sides under his armpits as well as his pierced navel, and he’d been rocking crop tops for enough years to know that folks were not put off by his pudge. It was a gross display of sexism that the same couldn’t be said for femme folks showing tummies. But on a night like this, he was relying on the crop top to imbibe him with enough courage to shake his blues away.

Shimmer played only the gayest pop, pop punk, and classics, which meant he knew every song. He stayed along the edges so he wouldn’t get in anyone’s space unwittingly by not being able to watch himself on all sides. All set up, he shut his eyes, tipped back his head, and let the rhythm take him.

Bright synth, booming bass, and crooning vocals.

Between the words, his thoughts were waiting for him.

It’s my dream to open a nonprofit child protective service for supernaturals.

Nobody should end up like me.

Two years. He’d had two, beautiful years with Lost Lore Foster and Protection. Two years of kids plucked out of hellish circumstances, saved from exploitation, neglect, crime, and substance abuse. LLFP had taken him another two years to get off the ground with all the permits, certifications, and licensures necessary after he had finished grad school. Exhausting, all-nighters, barely having the energy to forge and maintain all the connections his plans demanded, and barely making rent more months than not.

And just like that.

“Ouch!”