dinohigh, no humans allowed!

Every day is a new reason to fight—

—or so people tell me.

He got up from his bed, the mattress sagging under his weight, and stretched just enough to shake off the remnants of sleep. The first thing he did, before coffee, before brushing his teeth, was walk to the window of his cramped apartment. The world outside was already alive, bustling, and loud, a city teeming with dinosaurs of every shape and size.

He leaned against the chipped frame, staring down at the streets below. This was what he observed:

It was their reason to wake up. As if waking up another day wasn't a reward in itself. No, they needed some higher goal to exist. Living for themselves? Unthinkable. They always needed to do something for others, to be useful, to be used by others, so that the group could take something from them. And they let it happen.

He watched a towering, slate-scaled triceratops in a sharp suit walk briskly across the crosswalk, her briefcase clutched in one massive hand, her other adjusting the earpiece through which she barked clipped commands. Behind her, a smaller, bright-green compsognathus scrambled to keep up, clutching a precarious stack of files that swayed dangerously with every hurried step. The triceratops didn't so much as glance back.

Weak. He thought it again, biting into the word. They needed the comfort of the group. They couldn't live on their own.

All I wanted to do was live for myself.

A stegosaurus vendor unfurled an awning over his fruit stall, his spiked tail swaying rhythmically as he adjusted the arrangement of bright red starfruits and waxy yellow bananas. Two young hadrosaurs, clutching their holo-devices and giggling, walked by, stopping only to snap a photo of the vendor's display. They barely acknowledged him otherwise, their laughter bubbling over as they turned their screens to one another.

I get up in the morning and think about me—how I've made it another day, how I've survived for this long. And I know my life has value, because why else would so many people in my life—so many of these dinos—want to kill me so badly? They try so hard, take hours out of their limited day, their short 100-year lives, to pester this benign human who has never wronged them.

A pang of bitter satisfaction crept in, settling in his chest like a cold stone.

It simply meant I was valuable, and my value was diminishing theirs just by being around. This feeling—this grim satisfaction—was one of the few joys I had left in life. I strive every day to live, not because I need to, but because it brings me joy knowing that my survival brings displeasure to them.

He smirked faintly, watching a burly ceratosaurus argue with a uniformed ankylosaur over a parking ticket. The ceratosaurus gestured wildly, his sharp claws slicing the air with frustration, but the ankylosaur stood immovable, his armored bulk an impassable wall.

I live to see the smile leave their faces. And when it leaves theirs, it finds its way onto mine.

So, I agree, I guess. The sentiment is right. Every day is a reason to fight.

His gaze shifted to a group of deinonychus schoolchildren, their colorful backpacks swinging as they shoved and laughed their way onto a hoverbus. The driver, a weary-looking ceratopsian, shook her head but said nothing, her eyes distant, focused on her own problems.

Every day is a reason...to start a new fight. A fight with someone you haven't met yet. Because I already know what a dinosaur thinks of me the moment we meet—how they view humans, how they view me for being human. It's never if; it's always when.

So, if it's inevitable, I might as well show them how.

A theropod delivery rider zoomed by on a hover-scooter, the massive box strapped to his back rattling precariously. A velociraptor near the corner snarled in irritation as the scooter veered too close, snapping his sharp muzzle in a warning. The rider barked back, their voices blending into the cacophony of the city's morning.

I'll express my feelings by getting my foot in the door first—by making the first move for myself.

It's important to have the initiative in losing battles.

The sun rose higher, casting long shadows from the towering buildings onto the busy street. Dinosaurs of all shapes and sizes moved in their routines: a spindly oryctodromeus darted through the crowd, clutching a stack of steaming cups from a coffee kiosk; a tall, elegant edmontosaurus adjusted her scarf, her tail swishing as she checked her reflection in a passing shop window; a pack of velociraptors construction workers shouted instructions at one another as they maneuvered a massive steel beam into place on a nearby site.

Dinosaurs always have the advantage. They only get stronger the longer things last. If I want to win our little bout, our social performance, I have to work quickly.

A dilophosaurus barked impatiently at an older stegoceras who had accidentally stepped into her path. The stegoceras muttered an apology, retreating into the crowd as the dilophosaurus stormed ahead.

That's why I always walk away.

The art of social skirmish. Strike first, strike fast. Leave quickly. They walk away with a damaged ego. The crowd walks away with a laugh at their expense. And I walk away—intact.

He closed his eyes briefly, breathing in the moment, the faint smell of rain hanging in the air despite the bustling movement below.

Dinosaurs never enjoy losing.

A carnivorous majungasaurus bellowed at a meek, feathered oviraptor who had apparently bumped into her. The oviraptor stammered out an apology, clutching her satchel tightly as she bowed her head.

And that's why I love watching them lose. Their look of anger is always so… delicious.

I pick my battles carefully.

His eyes flicked to a ceratopsian couple arguing just outside a café. The larger one, her frill patterned with striking orange and red, pointed accusingly at her smaller partner, whose tail swished nervously as he tried to respond. The café patrons pretended not to notice, their gazes fixed firmly on their own tables.

But I just can't help myself.

His lips curved into a faint, bitter smile.

I always have to pick the ones I know I can't win. Watching the venomous look on their face as I do nothing but minorly inconvenience them—it's the closest I'll ever get to winning.

It was the closest I'd ever get to winning these unclimbable mountains.

He shifted his gaze back to the vendor's stall, now crowded with patrons. The stegosaurus worked with precision, handing out fruit and making change, his spiked tail swaying as he moved, frustrated at the machine for chewing up the receipt, wasting the paper.

All I could do was cause a small bump in the road for them to squash.

He stepped back from the window, the chaotic morning continuing without him. His shadow disappeared from the glass as he turned toward his day.

I'll never stop.