[h1]New Auslassia[/h1]
[h2]Milbury[/h2]

	The two were stopping in for dinner. The shadows outside on the street were already growing long. On a LED light strip on the building across the street a time-stamp crawled to the left reading 7:30; news followed the time, but all of it was the usual: the Broken Point Scalders had trumped the Milbury Boilers in a surprise 20-11 win in game two of a five-game contest for the Dogger championship, the Boilers star thrower was put out mid-way through after a throw of the ball by the Scalders had cracked his shin when he stepped up to swing in that game of Dogger Ball. Likewise unimpressive announcements made by city government were shown, before flashing a brief list of stock reports.

	The game the two men were interested in would not be advertised, and it would not happen until after dark, by about 10:30 by the reckoning of the one. In the meantime, to kill time both tucked in to a restaurant. One of the oldest in the city, its brick and mortar facing a dire contrast against some of the more modern refinishing of the comparatively temporal and phantasmic existence of the other store fronts and establishments. Amid the sights and quilt-work reminders of style in the last century and a half, the dark brick, red clay-faced three-story tavern was a nostalgic specter that remained trapped in this world to serve as a reminder that almost five hundred years ago this area was then a city.

	Named Unlce Hou's, it was a near ancient former ballroom and eatery for the once noble and stylish. But with the silent exit of the king and the assumption of the Ministers the marked shift in the social dynamic changed the old tavern. And under its exotic sloped and tiled awnings the many faces of Milbury society eloped. The workmen, the merchants, the bankers, and the police.

	Stepping through the door the two gray-blue uniformed officers were greeted tenderly by the greeter, who wore a plain, smooth blue dress. Asking them about their day, and where they would like to sit she lead them up to the second floor and found a corner table for them to stand. They did not sit, they leaned on the old wooden table as so many before had. Large glasses of beer called schooners were put before them and they spoke idly and scanned the room.

	Uncle Hou's was what was called an Oriental, an establishment that often served seafood and distant and exotic tastes to those well endowed with the funds. Fresh fish, shellfish, and eels had forever been the mainstay of its menu and were tradition, along with the wild spices cooked into it. But given changes in recent history, the advances in continental travel of the last century the cost of such exotic tastes slowly slid down, out of the exclusive pockets of ministers and magistrates and the high society and into the middle class and even – on some parts of the menu – the working class. As such, Uncle Hou's turned into the sort of place all class was obliterated for only a moment, and anyone from any part of life could sit next to the table of a ballister of a doctor and share in the same food. From Human to Alternative.

	To further its genre, the aesthetic of the old restaurant further emphasize it. Made of some far, distant, ancient parody of another place and another time each floor was marked with gently swept awnings as it rose its three and a half floors as a stout pagoda. Its windows – particularly on the second and third floors – were narrow and open to the elements, save for a fine screen mesh; it was not uncomfortable since Milbury was always seasonably warm on the southern coast. Interior, it was all made of a carved and finished wood, stained naturally or a deep bloody red along the highlights and accents. Orange lanterns hung from strings with no discernible or regular pattern. There was still a central stage too, though while draped in red curtains that hung from an iron ring hanging from the ceiling was empty. Delicate waves were carved into the wood railings, and where wooden columns met the ceiling the faces of sea dragons stared down at guests and employees alike.

	“Hav'ah eve' had to replace one of those little robotic vacuums? I mean, fix it?” one of the suited police officers asked. He was a tall gnarled being, an Alternative. His doggish face was starting to fade and bald in his middle age and the wrinkled light skin was showing more clearly beneath cream colored hair. He was one of the few who managed to end up in any sort of civil service, for specialized reasons. His eyes were a sharp gray-green, and they routinely looked up and scanned the room. His voice was gruff, and while accented wasn't nearly as heavy as the rest.

	“I once had one of my boot strings get caught in the whirly gig.” his partner said, a human with light red hair, almost a soft brown said. He scratched his broad double, cleft chin with a hand full of short sausages and muttered, “Sure did scream like a trapped rat till I realized it had somethin' chokin' it and it wasn't spinnin' none.”

	“Well nah mate, that ain't the case.” the dog-cop's name was Scabber, a ten-year veteran in the force, and considered a traitor among his kin for it. “Scamp was trampin' about th' bugaloo when I guess she kicked an' feel on it. I think she kneed the bugger.”

	The human, Peter Broadshaft – a twenty year veteran - rolled his eyes thinking. “She might'a crunched something. How long you had it?” he asked.

	“Two in some-off years.”

	“Ye mate, warranty may still be good. Send 'er in and the blokes at the company'll knock it right quick. Be right as rain when it comes back.”

	“You ever had to go through that?” Scabber asked.

	“Nah, but my 'cus over in Opal Beach spilled some yellow johnny on it when it knocked into his side-table and dumped all down it. He sent it back on a hunch and got it back in four days.”

	“Ah, I'll need to try that.”

	The waiter walked over, and smiling put down a plate of rolls and long brown rice for sergeant Broadshaft. Glistening white strips of broiled fish gleamed in the sunlight streaming through the corner windows, small brightly colored fruits and vegetables added intense color to the white and baked brown color of the dish.

	And still smiling, albeit uncomfortably she delivered Scabber's plate. A dish of small fried eels wrapped up about themselves like long noodles topped with nuts and sprigs of fresh herbs. A soup was set down next to it as a side, pieces of shellfish floating in a golden broth and the opalescent shine of an open clam resting in the bottom showing off the steamed white flesh in its shell.

	As the tucked into their food the two went silent as forks and knives clinked and scrapped plates. “You know, I found a good way to fix up some steak on the barbie.” Peter said between bites.

	“Oy, don't'cha be starting and givin' me doubts.” Scabber protested, wrapping the small noddle-like eels in a fork before slurping them in through his canine maw. “You get to talkin' about your fixing and I have second thoughts.”

	Peter laughed, taking a fork full of vegetables and dragging them through the spilling juices of the soft white fish flesh, impregnated with the herbs used. “Perhaps another day you can come by the place and I'll show you.”

	Scabber grunted, sipping the broth from the bowl. Small rivulets of it escaped down the side of the face and dripped from his jaw, wetting the thinning hairs that were like a beard there.

	Conversation passed with idle gossip. Trading words about the happenings in the department. As the plates slowly became cleaner, and the light darker there came a tension between them. Finally finished, the waitress came over and asked for desert. They declined, and got the bill. They paid and left.

	On the street side a plain black car sat parked. It bore no markings and the windows were tinted. Only its white polished hubcaps shone in the late evening light. Everything was purple and red now. The effect was dramatized further by Milbury's predominately white-surfaced architecture. If there were no clocks in the city, it was joked the residents could tell the time of day by the color of the city. With the exception of places like Uncle Hou's the city explored the spectrum of light through the time of day, beginning with sunrise pink and light blue before mid-day white; as the sun lowered and the day became late it turned yellow and orange before purple and moon-rise black. Then then streetlights would come on, bathing the city in sterile white light before the full blue of a moonlit night.

	Sitting in the unmarked cruiser Peter put the keys in the ignition and the engine hummed softly to life. A chromium dashboard lit up with soft back-lit dials and LED screen displays. A projection on the lower part of the center of the windshield lit up with a map of the city. Reaching out Peter touched it with his fingers and with a flinging motion pushed it all the way to Scabber's side. It hit the edge of the windshield and bounced like a ball hitting the edge of a billiards's table.

	“What?” Scabber asked.

	“You know I don't like it there when I drive.” Peter protested.

	“Didn't do shit, mate.” Scabber said.

	“I know. But get ready, it's about time.”

	“Alright, you drive and I'll get ready.” the beast-man grumbled, as he turned back to the backseat. There a sack lay on the floor and he hauled it over to him as Peter began driving. It was smooth, quiet. The only sound was the regular chatter of fellow officers on the beat. But these two were on a special mission, they ignored it for now.

	From the bag Scabber produced several odds and ends in cosmetics. Some specialized to Alternatives, some not. Right away he pulled down the passenger side mirror and set about quickly filling in the bald spots on his face. “Ay, Max. Disguise map.” Scabber mumbled.

	“Disguise Map.” a computer voice crackled, and the mirror he was looking into flickered before placing an overlay outline over Scabbard's reflection. Within the imprint of his head, shapes outlined separated areas from his face. This areas marked where he had to fill in. And working hurriedly and delicately he went about the work filling in those areas until the shapes disappeared on by one. Some did not need much. Others more so. Along the length of his nose he had to nearly fill in the patchiness of his snout. And finally, as the car came to a stop at the end of a darkened alleyway he was gently tipping his ears with caps to elongate them. By the end, he looked like a different person.

	“Here we are.” Scabbard said, looking down the alley. The windows from the inside were clear, as if they were untinted. From within they could look out and no one would tell they were.

	“Close enough. I don't see anyone around.” Peter said, “I'll take us a few blocks away.”

	Scabbard nodded, and they moved off again. Turning a corner they parked themselves in a half-empty parking lot. Nearby were a handful of small single-story offices and small business that clearly were not out for the night. It would not be unusual. Even better: one was a small pub. No one would be cautious about a car parked too long if it was assumed they were drinking.

	“Alright, hand it over to me now.” Peter demanded. He pushed back the steering wheel and it folded into the dash board, giving him enough room to put the bag down on his lap. Unfolding the driver's side mirror he called up his disguise map. It didn't quiet fit his face, and was in face lager under his chin. A dividing line between his face and the excess explained why. Quickly, he went to work applying a fake beard, and in the marked areas makeup to change his complexion. He worked quickly, dirtying his cheeks and applying the fake beard until it looked natural; the scratch hairs that now rubbed his neck only reminding him why he never grew his out naturally. On top of it, he stuck a fake nose over his own, turning his once small nose into a larger, bulbous schnoz. By the end, he had taken on a cases of rosacea, his nose had grown, and he had a thick brown beard.

	“Where'd you put the money, in the boot?” Peter asked, as he unbuttoned his shirt. Scabbard was following suit.

	“Bills are there.” he answered. Both wore undershirts. Peter a light-grat tank-top and Scabbard a long white T-shirt, though from his shoulder and ending at his elbow long strands of fur traced a vague shape of what could be believed long, wide sleeves of a cloak cut short. Peter reached back to a smaller bag, and traded out a new jacket with his partner. Black and brown mid-length coats and a solid color shirt to go underneath, or a stripped one. Either took the other-without particular distinction and busily redressed in the cramped cruiser. Peter replaced his shoes, putting on a pair of dress loafers. Scabbard went barefoot. With any luck they hoped, the mid-length coats and change in foot wear would alter their pants in such a way the dark-blue was more semi-casual, than police uniform. The bottom hems of the legs were rolled up to above the ankle and straightened.

	The two stepped out of the car. With the doors shut behind them Peter checked his coat and took a deep breath. Scabbard walked around the car to the trunk, and popping it open pulled out from it a medium-sized sack. Peter took a deep breath, “How do I look?” he asked.

	“They won't notice.” the Alternative said, walking out across the parking lot, his padded feet scuffing on the rough ashphalt.

	Leaving behind the street lights of the parking lot behind them the two walked into the alley shadows of night-time Milbury. High above them in apartments overhead the sounds of music or of life drifted down to the street level on spectral waves to come gently crashing to the ground in a waterfall of faded noise and sounds. Somewhere there was laughter from a late-night comedy show. Somewhere the chords of popular music. Somewhere further out there was a shout through an open window that for a moment sounded clear and near through the first ringing decibels of an angry shout. Making a corner there was a section of chain link, separating a small industrial building from the surrounding buildings. Old, parked cars in various states of repair confirmed the site as a car garage, tucked far from any main road. Looking down along the fence Peter noted the drive to it was hardly more than a normal alley lit only by a single fluorescent light that let down an eerie green glow onto the darkened alley.

	There was a rear gate in the chain link that Scabbard opened. Nonchalantly the two walked ahead to the building and knocked on the metal doors. There was a sound from inside, as well as music. The steel door opened a crack and a shape appeared, silhouetted against soft, dim light. “Yeah?” he said.

	“Here to pass the swag.” Scabbard said.

	“Well then mate, I don't need to ask you.” the doorman said. He stepped aside and pushed open the door. The doorman was a broad framed man with a heavy beer gut and a wife-beater that did little to hide his fully belly or thick chest hair. He let the two in amiably who stepped into the garage.

	They were greeted by the smells of smoking, hard liquor, and beer. There was oil, grease, and gasoline, lubricant, solvents, and rubber. Somewhere a stereo played music, but it was drowned out in detail by bouts of riotous laughter from elsewhere in the building. From the narrow side-room they came they passed by a window of plate glass and to a door, in the other larger room space in a large garage had been made for over fifteen card tables, each one was packed and loaded with all manners of hooligans rich and poor, Human and Alternative to even numerous Outlanders who sat leaning over or confidently on old card tables with great smiles, deep scowls, or more commonly forced blank expressions.

	“There might be a table open, take a look around.” the doorman said.

	The two nodded, and went on ahead. At the edge of the room they found a  table, insinuating themselves at a poker table comprised largely of Alternatives. Many sharp eyes were given to Peter as everyone sized him up. Not as a potential new contribution to the pool, he felt; but like predators sizing up prey to eat. He felt on the wrong side of the food chain in this cold moment.

	“Deal us in.” Scabbard said, reaching into the bag and tossing onto the table a loose fist of blue, cloud and bird-printed hundred Piece notes.

	One of them whistled, impressed. “Ay, ya got enthusiasm, cunts.” a small, frail framed ferret creature said, his wild long fur made up for missing mass but that in the end was pulling a translucent cloak over it, “An, who are you two? Some kinda queers?” he asked, not entirely politely.

	“We're just business partners.” Peter said, looking down at his cards. He didn't really pay attention.

	“I'm not judgin', there are some blokes out there inta' that sorta thing.” a large hog of Altie said, rather literally. His hide was dark and blotched with sun, probably early skin cancer. He wore a thin beard and mustache and handled his cards skillfully with incredibly short meaty fingers, “I 'appen to know a bloke who is. Anda' jane.”

	“And no one at the table that wants to hear 'bout know meat benders!” the ferret bellowed in a shrill voice, to the pig's amusement.

	“Regardless, what're yer two's buisiness?” inquired a deep golden dog. He must have been fairly young, his coat on his head was fairly full, though fading on the hands and arm.

	“That's between us.” Peter grumbled.

	The dog laughed, and rolled his eyes, “Anyways, tens lads, what's your calls.” he said flatly.

	“Fuck if I know what you got.” the ferret said, his voice rattling.

	“You won't ever will.” the dog said.

	Scabbard rolled his eyes and laid down his cards off the bat. “I got eights. Cut the cunt shit.”

	The other dog laughed, and suddenly the ferret got afraid. “Hey mate, I'm folding on this one.” the pig followed. The dog laid down his hand and won the round.

	The next few rounds passed with only idle banter. As the game progressed the amount in the bag diminished slowly. Though they did not go through every round at a loss. Scabbard and Peter were sure to bring something in and after half an hour, they were seated proper at the table, as if they had always been there. Jokes were exchanged, allegories traded.

	“I gotta back out. I'm beat.” the Ferret admitted after forty-five minutes of Scabbard and Peter being there. His pile of spoils had diminished considerably from what the two officers could tell, though it went without knowing if the size of the pile was only an illusion to its value, for what Scabbard was feeding the pool with. Several other times the rest of the gamblers had tried to press details out them, but they kept quiet. The pig had proposed they were part of one of the international cartels, and they should leave it there before the darkly dressed, mysterious figures sitting with them got mad.

	The game went on as a game of four until a new player joined in, a rather harangued kangaroo or wallaby. Tired, he threw in a small contribution and quietly apologized. “I had bad luck with the others mate, take it easy.” he said almost defeated. The pig laughed. Peter couldn't help but laugh to.

	But the kangaroo or wallaby put up a good character, and despite doing mediocre was a character to be around. While bets and bluffs were exchanged and called he put out some gossip.

	“You hear of this Dream See-er bloke?” he asked.

	“Think I heard somethin' like 'em once.” the pig said.

	“Well I got a few fliers of 'is.” the wallaby but also maybe a kangaroo said, “Some bloke on the street passed them by and a few of me mates did as well, I know at least one went along with it. Maybe you can help me make heads or tails.” he threw out a few rather poorly made fliers about the trailer.

	“I ain't tryin' to convert ya none, throw them away if ya gotta. But we're getting them somethin' heavy like jellies on the beach in the Upper Hills.”

	Peter lowered his cards faced down on the table and looked at the pamphlet. When someone asked if he was folding or going to double down on the last bet he mumbled something about ducking out on the turn to look at the pamphlet.

	“BROTHERS AND SISTERS.” it began in big red capital letters. The whole thing was printed on blue paper no better off than news print, “THE ERA OF DREAMS COMES AGAIN. IT HAS BEEN SEEN. ALL MAN AND BEAST SHALL WALK THE CLOUDS OF HIS PRESENT AND HIS ANCESTORS DREAMS. ASCENSION IS COMING, BROTHERS AND SISTERS!”

	The pamphlet gave no address which to inquire, but provided a phone number and a request to ask for “Walo Bingo”.

	“I'm going to take one of these if you don't mind.” Peter said.

	“You're not buying this trash, are you?” the pig asked.

	“No, I just think it's funny.” he remarked. And the game progressed.

	It was passed midnight when they spent their bag money, and they rose from their seats. The game had changed faces several times and it was the pig who was the only one left. They thanked the table for the game, though it may have been directed more to the hog.

	Safely back in the car the two officers removed their disguises. From the bag a vile of makeup solvent was produced to try and clean up Peter's face and remove the adhesive for the beard. Scabbard just scratched the length of his snout, the hair he had planted there peeling off piece by piece. “Hey, Max.” Peter said, “Call in Headquarters. Inspector Quinn.”

	“Calling: inspector Quinn.” the computer repeated, and there was a moment of ringing. With a click a man answered.

	“Report.” a gruff voice sounded, tired and impatient.

	“Money's in circulation chief.” said Peter.

	“Great, come on back and debrief then. I hope you two had fun.” Quinn said over the phone.

	“Oh, we did.” Peter said, and the line was switched off.

	Looking over at Scabbard, Peter was perplexed. In his hand the Altie held a fistful of loost money. Abandoning cleaning out the fake fur he was counting through it. “Where'd you get that?” he asked.

	“Winnings. None of it's ours. Almost nine-hundred pieces.”

	“By the Angle, nine-hundred?”

	Scabbard nodded, “It's not bad for being mediocre at poker. None of it's ours. They probably think we came out under.”

	“Right... I see.” Peter said.

	“How much you need?” Scabbard asked, holding the fistful out his way.

	“Wait, what do you mean?”

	“How much you need? I'm sure your wife wants something. Or kids. A nice night on the town, a show. I don't fucking know what Humans want or like.”

	“I'll think about.” Peter said.

	“You get half then.”