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Dylan was having a hard time focusing on work.

Admittedly, his job didn't require his complete and utter attention, and even on good days when the equine was tapping away at his computer his mind tended to wander, but the last forty eight hours had been especially distracting. As much as he tried to keep himself at his desk, or at least put his eyes on his computer and the tickets he needed to get through, Dylan's eyes kept flicking over towards his cell phone sitting face down to the right of him. Waiting to hear a tell-tale vibration.

The pegasus reclined in his chair, being overly cautious as usual to avoid tipping over. Two years without the extra weight on his back and his instincts still had him compensating for it. A few moments of making sure that, yes, he was safe to relax before he actually did, and he just blew a breath out, looking at the screen in front of him, its rows of text sprawled across various boxes.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. Not for the great Dylan Greaves.

Half a dozen years ago he'd been on a fast track to stardom. A rising talent in the performing arts. Still in his teens, Dylan had that rare combination of good looks, grace, a singing voice, and natural charisma that had him attracting eyeballs in his private high school's musical theater productions. School plays rarely garnered attention from actual critics, but the equine's performances were enough to have them in the audience, writing columns the next day that he would be one to watch out for in the big leagues.

Sure, having those majestic wings sprouting from his back didn't hurt, but it wasn't like Dylan didn't have the chops to justify the leading roles that seemed gift-wrapped for him. Not that it made much of a difference to his peers and their parents, who had no problems letting everyone know that the only reason they'd lost a particularly juicy part to him was because the director thought it would sell tickets just for the novelty of it.

"It's supposed to be a serious performance, not a circus sideshow!" groused a... well, a grouse, upset that her son had been passed over.

"If he didn't have those stupid wings he couldn't get hired to do a local TV spot, while we true talents are left to wither and die," huffed a young white tiger, dramatically enough that it was like he was still auditioning for the part he'd lost.

So it went.

Dylan understood, even if he didn't appreciate it. Freshman year, here was this new guy with no real experience taking the romantic lead from one of the seniors, and by the time Dylan himself was part of the old guard everyone had a running joke of what show would be picked to make sure the pegasus got the best showcase before heading off to New York. Not the kind of joke anyone was laughing at, especially when the show selection did indeed star Dylan in a part where everyone else seemed to be there just to keep the attention on him.

Underneath his emotive face and hidden behind the belting tenor, though, Dylan Greaves was having a crisis within. Yes, he soaked up those glowing reviews, the applause of the crowd, and the way his adoptive parents kept insisting he'd be a superstar someday. The old bats weren't unkind to him, but he was always left with that nagging feeling, that voice in the back of his head telling him that everything was being given to him just because of his unusual genetics.

If he didn't have those stupid wings...

The accusations drove him that much harder to prove himself. He didn't coast his way through his performances, far from it. As much as the less charitable classmates and regressive-minded members of the community accused him of needing only spread his wings and be given marquee roles despite not being able to act his way out of a paper bag, Dylan put in the work. He stayed up late nights poring over scripts, doing research on the roles, recording himself on his phone to review.

Admittedly, quite a bit of that was at the insistence of his parents, who would absolutely not abide by flubbed lines or missed cues. Maybe they were too strict with him, he couldn't say, but the end results spoke for themselves.

When it came time to start going to the big time, so to speak, Dylan found himself enrolled at that very university in Boston, declaring the expected theatre major, and securing himself auditions both within the curriculum and around town. He talked with his instructors about demo reels and getting professional headshots taken, and how to approach making the transition from live theater to television or film.

Then everything started to go wrong.

In high school, certainly, the novelty of a winged horse was something that helped him stand out from the pool of hopefuls for any given show the school was putting on, and for the college's small productions the same was true. Dylan, however, got a different taste of the "real" world of entertainment when it came to trying to get himself cast outside of the academic world.

That the pegasus's early auditions hadn't gone perfectly wasn't much of a surprise to anyone. He wasn't well known, still young, and was still working on mastering the craft. He expected to get rejections, all Dylan was doing was building experience.

Unfortunately, his fortunes didn't seem to turn. A year later, while he'd been able to land roles in college and one or two regional plays, he didn't seem to be making any progress beyond that. No callbacks after auditions, no responses to audition tapes, not a single bite on the line. Once his junior year started up, Dylan Greaves was becoming disheartened. The rocket that was supposedly strapped to his back was rapidly running out of fuel and he could hear it sputtering, leaving him terrified of when it may come crashing back down to earth.

After a rehearsal for an old Greek classic play that was set to be performed at a park in the spring, Dylan asked his director if he could have a chat with her. The old bear was intimidating both in stature and demeanor, but he felt oddly at ease around her. Likely because, different to most, he never got the idea that she was hiding anything from him.

The winged equine sat on a bench beneath a tree in the park they'd be putting on the show two weeks later, carefully positioning his wings so they didn't get folded awkwardly behind or beneath him. The day was bright, if a bit chilly, and the run had gone well. It felt like a good time to talk about some of his worries.

"What's on your mind, hoss?" the old bear inquired.

Dylan chuckled. He liked the nickname, silly as it was. "Yeah, uh... I was just wondering like, if you had any advice about auditions."

"What do you mean? You got the part, didn't you? I think you got the audition thing pretty much down. Not bad for a young guy."

Dylan took a breath, shrugging once. "I know but... I've been having a way harder time getting roles than I expected. I mean, don't get me wrong, I know in high school it was kind of a big fish in a small pond thing, but... the way everyone talked then, I thought I was gonna be getting parts left and right. I got really good reviews back then, even from professional critics, you know? But now it's like I can barely get a callback."

The bear snorted, "Oh, so this isn't good enough? We're just the only ones who made the offer?"

Dylan blanched, putting his hands up. "Oh, god, Jackie, I didn't mean it like that, I was just saying..."

Jackie laughed, shaking her head. "Just bustin' your balls a little, hoss. I know we're a small troupe and you had your eyes set on Broadway or Hollywood." The bear took a drink from her water bottle and looked out at the park a moment, pausing to think over her words. "You want my honest opinion?"

"Wouldn't have asked if I didn't," Dylan replied.

She patted her big hands on her thighs a few times, stalling a couple more seconds. "Okay, Dylan, here's the thing. You're good. Really damn good. I am in no way suggesting otherwise, you got that?"

Dylan nodded, getting a nod in return.

"Good. Just wanna get that out of the way. Here's the thing, hoss. You are never going to be easy to cast in a production. Doesn't matter if it's a TV show, a musical, a movie, or a commercial. This play we got going? Of course. It's ancient Greek, it's Theater in the Park, a pegasus in a lead role works. But that's the thing. You're only gonna be able to get cast when a pegasus, specifically, fits that slot. Do you understand?"

The hybrid equine himself looked a bit confused. Jackie sighed, resting back on the bench.

"See, for almost anyone else, they can slot into a role that doesn't necessarily involve their species. Yeah, a kangaroo rat won't be getting the part of a big hulking henchman in a mob flick and as much as I love her Daphne won't be likely cast as a leading lady."

That one got another snicker from Dylan. Daphne, a rather heavy elephant a few years older than him, was a good character actress for sure, funny and entertaining, but he admitted he couldn't picture her in a steamy romance.

Jackie nodded, glad the avian equine was still in good humor. "Yeah. See, everyone has to understand what their species means in terms of opportunities. For anyone else, that just means how physically suited they are to the role. Right size, right build, right presence, or can they still make it work just by really sinking into the character. When they're on screen or on stage, their species isn't commanding attention. Yours does."

Dylan felt a conscious twinge in his feathers, the attachments between his shoulder blades suddenly reminding him of the weight that hung off of them, and he rolled his shoulders, making his spine quietly crackle.

The hefty brown bear's attention went back to those wings as well, just for a moment. "Dylan, whenever you're up there, attention is going to go right to you. You are always, always, going to command the focus of a scene when you're in it. You're not someone who can just blend into the background, and when you're up there, the fact that you're a pegasus is going to be front and center on everyone's mind. Do you know what that means?"

Dylan shook his head. It wasn't entirely honest of him, he was beginning to have a feeling he might know, but was hoping he would hear something else.

Those hopes were dashed when the no-nonsense old director continued. "It means that when it comes to you and getting cast, you're in one of two spots. You're either the lead role or you're not there at all. That's it. Those are your options. If you're going for an audition, if that lead isn't one that suits a pegasus, you're not going to get cast in a minor role."

Dylan's heart dropped into his stomach, his face getting a rush of cold to it. He shifted in his seat, almost trying to press his wings back into the bench to get them out of focus. "Well why not? That's not fair."

Jackie shrugged, her expression sympathetic but matter-of-fact. "You're right. But any casting director knows that if you're in there, you'll be the one everyone's looking at, so if you don't fit the main lead, they can't have you pulling the audience away from where they should be. Means you've got an uphill battle here. You're going to be much more limited than anyone else you meet out there. I'm sorry. I mean that."

Dylan's gaze went down to the sidewalk passing in front of him, examining it closely. The cracks in the pavement, bits of grass growing up through them. For several moments, he had no idea what to say. Where to go with this.

"But... then how am I supposed to get my name out there? If I'm never going to get cast in a small part in a big production, what can I do? It's not like my first role is going to be a lead on Broadway or a Hollywood blockbuster..."

The bear shook her head. "No, it ain't. Just means you're gonna have to do a lot more digging to find roles you can take. Instead of looking for small roles in big shows, look for big roles in small ones. Keep an eye on the film festival circuit. I'm sure you can get in there."

Still determined to prove that he was more than a novelty act, that was exactly what Dylan Greaves did. He combed through postings online, joined groups on social media, networked his ass off. It didn't take long for him to realize just how right Jackie had been. There were indeed plenty of parts on the independent scene that fit a pegasus, but every single one of them was obviously more about showcasing him solely for his species than giving him an actual role to sink his teeth into. Something to show what he was capable of.

On stage, it was just as clear. With the ability to see the crowds in front of him, Dylan was more aware than ever that even though their eyes were locked on him, they weren't actually seeing him. Not really. Sure, they applauded, laughed, reacted when and how they should, but all the while he felt hollow from it. The winged equine saw a small sea of faces that weren't reacting to his performance, just to his presence. They weren't paying attention to what he could do, just to what he was.

He graduated from college, and his fortunes continued that same way. The promising star from years ago had turned into someone fighting to get his emails returned, who was lucky to perform to a house smaller than his old high school auditorium. The wall in his tiny apartment that he expected to be covered in reviews of his work by then had his diploma on it and little else. What attention those festival films did get... wasn't great.

"It certainly is bold to put a real life hybrid front and center, but one wonders if A Glass Rose has any purpose other than to dazzle its audience with its star's stunning appearance," read one review.

"Dylan Greaves seems to have some talent, but little of it was on display in this film, which seemed more interested in bland set pieces designed to put his body on display more than anything else," read another.

Eventually the weight in the pit of his stomach grew too heavy to ignore. He knew, in his bones, that he had the skill, the look, the charm to succeed. He was sick of being a prisoner to his own body.

The smell of that old shop hit his nose before anything else. Dylan had heard rumors about the place ever since college. A seedy little place buried in Chinatown that sold far more than just the potent herbal remedies that nearly had him coughing as soon as he walked in. Calling it a "store" felt like an overstatement. It was more like an oversized market stand crammed into a crevice in between two actual stores (well, one was a restaurant). All around him were glass jars full of various plants, open buckets of the same, the scent of every one mixing together and filling his wide nostrils.

He swallowed, that lump in his throat refusing to dissipate. When he saw the owner, an almost eerily thin heron, he thought about turning on his heel and leaving, but couldn't. He had to see this through.

"What you want?" the bird asked, his voice sharp.

Dylan took a breath. "I think... I have something you want," he replied.

The back room. A door in the rear of the shop led to a small area that, it was clear, was not for the customers to see. There were no tourist-friendly paintings on the walls, no plants and decorations strewn about to give off a friendly atmosphere. Brick walls. A stone floor. Bright white lights overhead that made a buzzing sound, since the cliche "traditional" music playing up front barely penetrated into the back.

That smell again. A rusty, metallic odor that left Dylan pining for the obnoxious herbs up front. In the room's center, a metal table. Behind that, a small cart with an array of miscellaneous medical instruments. A cabinet against the wall. It looked like what would happen if you had to build a doctor's office out of the parts from other offices after they got too worn down to use. He hoped they at least attempted to sterilize things.

The pegasus sat anxiously on that table, feeling the cold travel up through his jeans, waiting for... whatever was coming next. The answer came in the form of a grim-faced macaque, an uncountable number of years etched on his face. There was no cheery banter, no friendly hello and an exchange of small talk about the weather. He silently walked in, pulling his phone out of his pocket, tapping with his thumb on the screen. Rather than the kind of gown Dylan was used to seeing on surgeons, this one wore an apron. One that befit the name he'd heard in the past.

The butcher.

"Shirt off," the pale-furred monkey instructed after locking the door behind him.

Dylan did as he was told, and found himself awkwardly posing for a number of photographs, apparently for later proof of the "merchandise's" authenticity. Front, back, both sides. Wings out, wings in.

Flexing those wings gave the equine hybrid a stab of resentment towards them, reminding him of why he was there. It took a great deal of effort to spread them out, the muscles that held them in place not terribly powerful. Not like the true wings that stretched along the arms of the birds of the world who could at least glide with theirs. He recalled one day when he tried to take flight from on top of his parents' garage. The hospital visit later, needing his ankle repaired from the disastrous landing. That doctor was comforting. This one was not.

The monkey took Dylan's wrist, and dropped three pills in the pegasus's hand.

"Take these. Lie on stomach," he said, flatly.

Dylan looked at the small tablets in his hand, then over at his "surgeon," who was now rooting around in the cabinet, getting rubber gloves out and putting a paper mask over his face.

"Um... aren't you going to, you know... put me under?"

The macaque turned, his eyes even more intimidating now that they were all he could see of him. "This look like hospital? Take pills, be quiet."

Dylan put the tablets in his mouth, struggling to force them down with how dry his throat was. He lied down on his stomach, crossing his arms beneath his face, and breathed. He just prayed it wouldn't take long.

"Brandon! Hey, Earth to Brandon, you still there?"

A snapping sound brought the equine out of his reverie, the sounds of keyboards clacking all around him, phones ringing, and the white noise of muted chatter from the other desks in the building making their presence known once again. He looked around, seeing the face of his manager, a generally amiable bobcat who sometimes tried a little too hard to be a buddy to the point where it was hard to know just how genuine it was.

"Oh! Uh... yeah, sorry Paul. Just got caught up in, um..."

The feline chuckled and shook his head. "All good, brotha, just making sure you didn't stroke out on me," he said, lightly patting the back of the white horse's chair in a way that was both friendly and a subtle hint to roll back towards the desk and get work.

So that's what he did. Brandon got back to work.

When he walked out of the old Chinese shop, Dylan Greaves didn't feel like himself. His shoulders were no longer weighted down. He was almost floating along as he walked. Ironically, being freed of his wings left him feeling like if he got a running start, he could start flying. The stitched wounds on his back were tender, but that pain was something of a badge, a pulsing reminder of the bonds no longer holding him down. He was ready to take on the world.

The world, however, had other plans.

He expected the auditions to be easy after that. After all, without his wings forcing him into a narrow slot, he should have been able to find a whole host of roles. He should have blasted through that glass ceiling and rocketed off into the stars the way everyone said he would.

At first, it seemed like that was exactly what was happening. He went to auditions, he sent his tapes out, and he got bites. He went for callbacks, he got in contact with casting agents and directors. and for a moment it looked like things were going his way. Dylan, the former hybrid freakshow, was going to be a serious actor. Not just a novelty.

None of it panned out. What few roles he did manage to get were small parts, extras in a crowd or otherwise nothing substantial. On the regional theatre circuit he had some luck getting parts, but not nearly what he thought he would.

A rather tense phone call to one director after yet another round of callbacks failed to culminate in a starring role shed some unwanted light on Dylan's plight.

"Look, kid, I'm not saying you're not talented. You are. The audition was great. Just, come on. Let's be real here. Don't take this the wrong way, but there's a million handsome horses out there gunning for lead roles. If you want to make it, you need a way to stand out. Find that, and maybe you got a shot."

Dylan had a long think that day. He'd been so adamant to break through that glass ceiling that he hadn't even considered the possibility that he was only able to reach that high was thanks to the very wings that he'd been so eager to shed. Suddenly, his future, his plans, all of that was gone.

He filled out some forms, and took them to the county court. Dylan Grieves, a pegasus with his heart set on stardom, walked into the building. Brandon Baxter, a quiet horse just looking to land a steady job, walked out.

It felt surreal at first. Walking around Boston without feeling eyes on him. Unlike Dylan, Brandon had no problem blending in with the world around him. In fact, it took some time for Brandon to shake the feeling that he was being intentionally ignored. It was a big change. From taking center stage with a packed house all hanging on his every movement to waving his arms just trying to get the bartender to notice him. He never figured out if it was a good or a bad thing.

The plain old horse tapped away at his computer, working his way through another ticket. He kept glancing over at the phone on his desk, waiting for it to vibrate. The Exo Club (gods he hated that name and couldn't believe Melody talked him into using it) had turned into the one place in the world for him to still make contact with who he had been before walking into that old herbal medicine shop. At work, around town, he was playing the part of Brandon Baxter, who had always been just a horse. He was good at it. At least those acting chops finally proved useful. Around his hybrid friends, Dylan could be himself.

For now, though, Dylan was worried about that jackalope kid he met the other day. He seemed so troubled, like he didn't know where he was going, what he was hoping to find when he got there. Dylan knew that feeling well, and more than anything, he knew the kind of problems that could come from not figuring it out. The world was not an easy place for a hybrid, much less the exotics. He had sent a message to Melody asking about the kid, suggesting everyone meet up that night, to try and make some plans. He was hoping to hear back soon, before anything happened.

His phone vibrated, and Dylan swiftly picked his phone up to see what it was.

The equine's brow furrowed. It wasn't a message from Melody. It wasn't a message from anyone. It was one of those emergency notifications.

[ALERT: Juvenile on the run, possibly in the Boston area. Marcus Lewis, 17m, was reported missing on...]