Author's Note: I suggest you re-read – or at least skim over – the previous chapter, as it sort of builds up to this moment. Also, this chapter has some violence that, well, ain't too pretty – so be prepared for that. Not for the squeamish.

Skittery dropped his papes in the street and picked up his pace, soon breaking into a run. The area was swollen with people and the man was moving fast, but Skittery felt the day's tension – and all the tension of the days before – solidify itself, squirming and throbbing in the pit of his stomach, propelling him forward. He wasn't thinking of what he'd do when he caught up with the man, just that he needed to catch up.

He caught up.

Crack.

Skittery brought his stick down on the man's back, knocking him forward. He grabbed the guy by his jacket and jerked him backward, pausing only to notice the man's shocked expression before driving his knee into his ribcage. A sharp oof! was released as the man doubled over in pain. His hands fumbled for Skittery's neck and his body writhed for some semblance of control, but it did nothing as Skittery's fist with his face. Then again. And again. And again.

He held him by the collar of his shirt for better leverage and hit him in the jaw, the nose, the eyes – wherever his knuckles happened to land. The man started spitting up blood, and surrounding strangers were suggesting he stop, but he couldn't. Tears were welling up in Skittery's eyes, glossy and wet and sticking to his lashes, blinding him to all of it. He wasn't crying, but the sound of skin against skin was stirring up strange feelings in him, feelings he had only just witnessed - he felt human.

"Sonofabitch," he muttered with disdain, punctuating each blow. His knuckles were stinging and starting to split open; the warm blood that spilled over caused his fist to slip against the man's face on contact. He was losing feeling in his fingers, tendons tingling in pain, but he couldn't stop. His shoulder was aching unbearably, and the veins in his forearm were screaming from the impact. His nose dripped with snot, making it difficult to breathe, but he couldn't stop. Blood was leaking out of various facets of the man's face, and women were gasping with fright. The man lost consciousness and his body went limp, and suddenly Skittery could stop.

His first thought was that he had to find the girl and see if she was okay. He had to pick her up and wipe away the dirt and assure the mother that all had been taken care of and make the girl smile again, smile just for him. He had to find them first, but they had fled. He hoped he hadn't scared them.

There was murmuring all around him and shouts for the police. Skittery kept moving and kept moving, unsure of what exactly had just happened. He knew he'd just done something wrong, and faces were swirling around him in a blur of color, but all he could do was keep moving.

Minutes past like this until he neared a familiar building. He dragged his palm against the warm brick, feeling a hint of relief. He had made it to Duane Street. He couldn't believe it, but he'd made it. Or close to it, he wasn't quite sure. Things were looking funny. His pace slowed and the ground swelled and buckled beneath him. Everything seemed distorted and unnaturally close or far away, like tug of war with his surroundings, and somehow he didn't think he was winning. He wished he had his walking stick to hold onto.

He could feel himself stumbling, struggling to regain his balance, until it was like he'd suddenly entered a tunnel, the boundaries of his vision narrowing sharply inward. The ground came rushing up to meet him, and then black.

"I don't think I can carry him."

"Yeah, but we can't just leave 'im here—"

"I know dat, but I really don't think I can carry him! He ain't exactly small, y'know. He ain't exactly Racetrack—"

"How long you think he's been here?"

"Dunno. Couple minutes, maybe?"

"He looks bad. Well, maybe if I grab his feet…? Wait, I think he's wakin' up—!"

Skittery's eyes rolled around in their sockets for what seemed like ages before he had the strength to open them. Things slid in and out of focus, and the setting sun beat down squarely on his face. His head hurt.

"Skittery?" one of the voices asked tentatively. A hand was raised to shield the light from his eyes, and he felt thankful. "Hey, Skitts, can ya hear me?"

"I, ugh…" He blinked several times. "I diddindoit…" was all he could manage.

A few nervous chuckles, some relieved muttering, and ever so slowly faces came into view. Familiar faces. He squinted at them. An almond-skinned boy and another with one eye stared back apprehensively.

"Jeez, Skitts, you okay?" Blink asked.

"I dunno… I, I—I need ta lie down." Blink and Mush shared a look.

"Ya are lying down, Skitts," Mush said. Skittery couldn't think of any way to respond to this, so he groaned and closed his eyes.

"Alright, let's get 'im inside," Blink said resolutely, and hoisted him up by his waist. With some difficulty, the two managed to prop him up and drag him inside the lodging house. Skittery's head flopped down uselessly. "Kloppman!" They paused, and Blink's brilliant blue eye surveyed the area. "Kloppman, we's got trouble!"

"Just a minute, just a minute…" The old man entered the room, drying his hands with a dirty dishtowel. He adjusted his glasses and scrutinized their cargo with concern. "What do we got here?"

"It's Skitts, Kloppman," Mush said softly. "We dunno what happened, but we found him out cold on the corner."

"I see, I see," Kloppman said after a moment of silence, though he didn't see at all. "Well, you two get 'im upstairs, lie 'im down, and I'll get some water…"

They did as he said, though it was no easy task. Skittery refused to cooperate and Mush had to continually remind him to move his limbs and take steps forward, one foot after the other. At one point they thought he muttered, "I don't take orders from no one," but when they looked at him he appeared to be unconscious still.

Seven minutes later they got upstairs and into the room. They set him down in the bed closest to them, his body landing with a soft thump like a sack of grain. Kloppman brought some water in an old metal cup, tilted Skittery's head up, and forced him to drink. After a moment Skittery choked a little and pushed it away, shifting to his side. Blink picked up one of Skittery's hands and pointed out the numerous cuts and abrasions to Mush. Once more they exchanged looks, which Skittery noticed through half-closed eyes. He noticed but he didn't care.

And then there was black again.

Skittery's eyes fluttered open. His step back into consciousness was more natural now, like coming out of a dreamless sleep. The September heat caused the thin sheets to stick to him, but otherwise it was the most comfortable he'd been all day. He stared at the bunk above him, allowing his eyes to adjust to the strange shapes the coils appeared to be making, and then rolled over onto his side.

"Well, hello there," said a voice beside him. Specs glanced up from the paper he was reading and smirked, though his eyebrows were ruffled in concern. "You awake finally?"

The room was dark, and the candle beside Specs was too blaring to look at. Skittery blinked several times and rubbed his temples. He noticed that his right hand was heavily bandaged with an old stained cloth, splotched with dried blood. He held out both hands to examine them.

"What the hell happened?" he muttered drowsily. His left hand was bruised and a little cut up, but nothing too out of the ordinary. The pain in the right, however, was overwhelming.

"I should be askin' you that," Specs said, folding up the newspaper and tossing it on his bunk.

Skittery remained silent. He noticed that Specs wasn't wearing his hat; locks of hair were falling in unkempt curls against his forehead, not unlike the ringlets of smoke that drifted lazily up from the candle's flame. He looked a little more tired then usual. The incessant itching returned to Skittery's head and he went back to scratch it, his scalp tender and scabbed.

"Ya always read the papes?"

"Every day," Specs said, slightly frustrated. "Some of the words I don't really get, but, well, y'know. Why ya scratchin' so much? Ya got lice or somethin'?" Skittery rolled his eyes. "Alright then. How ya feelin'?"

There was a grumbling in his stomach. "Hungry."

"Thought you'd say that. Here." And with that, Specs handed him a plate of pork and beans that seemed to have materialized out of thin air, but really he'd been keeping on the bedside table. "Sorry if it's cold, I wasn't sure when ya'd wake up."

Skittery ate ravenously, his mouth inches away from the dish and his spoon barely doing any work. Specs pushed his glasses up from the tip of his nose and continued to talk.

"All's I know is, Blink and Mush came and found ya passed out on the ground, a few buildings down. They took you inside and ya fell asleep right away." He paused, and looked at the dark night that spread outside the window. "I guess dat was about two hours ago. Your hands were all busted up, so Kloppman cleaned 'em and wrapped that one up with an old shirt. He said he'd let you pay for lodgin' tomorrow. That food's gonna cost ya six cents though." He ran his fingers through his hair as punctuation, sweeping it out of his face.

Skittery nodded, took a drink of water, and continued eating.

"Ya got any papes ya want me to take back? Getcha money back?"

Strange images took shape before him. Dropped papers in the dirt. Running. A man's jacket. Skittery winced at the throbbing in his head and put his plate down, finished. He felt sick, and tried to suppress any more dreamlike recollections that could attempt to emerge.

"Nope. Lost the rest of 'em."

"Sorry to hear dat."

"Yeah." They sat in an awkward silence, one party fully prepared to listen, the other completely unwilling to talk. Skittery vaguely took note of how golden but strained everything appeared in the dim lighting of the room. He glanced at Specs and saw the way his jaw looked darkly outlined, sharply defined in this light. The way Specs was sitting, his glasses were reflective enough to hide his eyes, and Skittery wondered if he was staring back at him.

"Where is everyone?" he asked quietly.

"Kloppman said they all should clear out for awhile, let ya sleep. Nobody knew what happened to ya, so."

"Yeah." He didn't want to elaborate any more than he had to at the moment, and it was making things uncomfortable. They sat in silence a few seconds more.

"So!" Specs said finally, clapping his hands on his knees. "You're lookin' better, and I think you could use a drink. Maybe help with that headache o' yours."

"Ya got whiskey on ya?" he asked, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Nah. I was thinkin' O'Halloran's, if you're up to it."

Skittery looked up quickly in surprise. He couldn't remember a time in months that the two had gone out for drinks. The last thing he wanted to do, however, was move from the bed or go out in public, and he had a stabbing fear of being recognized by any witnesses from earlier. The self-pity he felt was staggering. But Specs stared back so expectantly, and so seriously, that he felt strangely obligated.

"Sounds good," Skittery said with uncertainty, eyebrows raised as if it was a question. "But I don't got money…"

"Eh, I figured as much. It's on me."

"Nah, Specs, I don't want ya to—"

"Hey," Specs said firmly, standing up. "This is as much for me as it is for you. Now swap ya shirt with somethin' clean, get ya shoes on, and let's go."

Without another word Skittery nodded, quickly attempted to smooth his rumpled hair, and got up to change.

Author's Note: And the next chapter shall be the last. Will Skittery finally achieve some sort of peace? That remains to be seen (but c'mon, I'm not that sadistic). And this next bit is something I've been looking forward to writing since the story started. Yay!

Special thanks to AnnieTheNewsElf for reviewing every chapter so far:)

Also, BIG SHOUT-OUT to GeekOnDisplay for the super kind words and recognition in her awesome new Skittery fic, Darkness (go read it if ya haven't yet)!