Dinh AaronMk

Every Time Mahz Logs Back In

<Snipped quote by Otaku95>

Hunger Games, you say? Its been awhile since anyone has hosted one of those.

@BrobyDDark

I've been working on my computer for the last couple weeks and I wasn't afraid if at some odd point it ever crashes I don't want to be caught in the middle of something important. Otherwise I might roll one out again.

Of course, it's been behaving very well with me so far tonight.

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

China

Beijing

Xicheng District

Dawn's light closed in on the capital. The sky turned a deep purple as pale oranges and yellows followed after the setting sun as it lowered below the crowns of the buildings and tree tops to the west. The distant outlying hills and mountains outside of Beijing took on dark shapes pressed against the evening sky as the street lights flickered on. But in places in the old city where the damage of the war had not been so severe, where work crews had not the opportunity or ample reason to carry on reconstruction many of the streets and narrow Hutongs lay dark and dreamy in the fading lights. As birds clambered and chirped madly in the trees, drowning out the sounds of traffic on the mainroads the sounds of dogs barking and children crying their final screams of the late evening sang in the cool summer's air.

The gentler folk who lived along the narrow hutongs had done what they could to hand lanterns up from the small gateways into their family homes, which provided a soft orange light for the late-night travelers on their way home. Many were old blood in the city, merchants who had found a new life under the Communist regime or a few professionals who wanted what was believed to be a fleeting facet of old Chinese life and moved into the empty Siheyuans. As men in factory garb or faded bureaucratic suits shuffled through the narrow streets, or skillfully wove along them on bicycles a small group of youths made their huddled way through the narrow corridors smelling the late evening smells of fried dumplings, searing fish, or the incense on old family altars.

High atop an old stone wall a cat sat perched and meowed down at the group as they passed. Its eyes glowing a bright green as it caught the soft light below. But they disregarded the feline, chattering and talking warmly among themselves as they went along their way. The topics varied, ranging from idle banter to conversation on life and women, or rather simply women. The singers of the day spun in and out of conversation.

“The ladies really like Ai Wung.” said one to his companions, “My older cousin said they really like to be called a Silken White Lilly, after his song.”

There was dismissive laughter, and they went along.

Their walk came to an end at a small gatehouse. Nondescript, blending in with its neighbors its only tell as to whose it was, let alone it was not unlike the others was a large painted wooden sign reading “Gao – Song, Zhen, Liling, Huang, Ji, and family”. There was also a potted plant.

Acting as not being strangers, the company of young men stopped at the door and their leader reached for the wooden door to the courtyard beyond and grabbed the robe to the bell there. With a firm tug he rung it and a dull brass note rang in the night. Moments later an old thin woman came to the door dressed in a gray cotton dress. Smiling wide, her pale cheeks glowing in the lantern lit courtyard beyond she began happily greeting them. Bidding them welcome with each name she recited with warm familiarity, “Guang, Ho, Hei, Da, Cong,” she said, “Biming, Chao. Welcome. Head along, the professor is waiting.”

The students exchanged her hospitality and returned the bows. Some pointed out the decoration of the evening and complimented the lanterns strung above the stone courtyard. One mentioned the well kept plants in the scattered garden plots in the courtyard, distributed as if one had cast a few pebbles into the air and dug up the dirt there for flowers and trees. Besides the wall to the narrow Hutong street behind them, they were enveloped completely by house. A wide veranda ran the edge of the open courtyard, including in its circuit the southern wall at the street. A few electrical lights in the rafters illuminated the darker spots and one their left side an elderly couple could be seen watching them as they rocked back and forth in their chairs. The youths bowed to them, and the couple returned the favor by waving hello, or bowing their heads.

Moving ahead they stepped into the main house proper and they were greeted immediately by the smells of fry and cooking of stew. As the guests came to a hungry excitement they were greeted by the man of the house, a tall impressive figure with a thinning head of hair.

“Good evening! Welcome!” he said in a loud cheery voice. A pair of round circular glasses sat atop a dapper, delicate nose. His cheeks were round and wrinkled, especially as he smiled and his voice carried like a thunder clap in the theater. He spoke warmly and with candor, his brown eyes glowing brightly in the lantern and candle light of his house. There was not much room for electricity, he seemed to provide his own in any case.

The guests and their hosts migrated to a dinner table, small and normally not fitted for such a large number they none the less found a way to pack themselves in. As genially as they had come, so they set about the evening's events. Opening with stories. “I was visiting my cousins in the country last weekend.” one of the young men started, Chao Biming. A broad shouldered young man with a face that threatened to turn into Guan Yu's if he did not shave. He was a student of engineering at the university.

“When I joined my eldest cousin in a walk around the fields I saw two small birds fighting off a large hawk. This was amazing, I thought and I pointed it out to my cousin. Nonplussed he looked up at the fighting birds and shrugged it off. 'It happens all the time.' he told me, 'sooner or later one gets the better of the other.'

“'How often does it turn out?' I asked him.

“'It depends on how hungry the eagle is.' my cousin said casually.

“I was still impressed by this, and I watched them as we walked. I was amazed at the agility of the small bird's performance and the endurance and stability of the hawk in flight. He acted as if there was nothing to bother him and stayed the course.

“This simple thing had to be the single most fascinating thing that day. And my cousin brushed it off! He showed me a creek instead he would take his kids too on an easy day and let them play and cool off in the water as he sat by and carved wood with his knife.”

“What does your cousin make?” a thin wiry man said, barely a boy. Like the professor Gao Song he wore a pair of spectacles, though his larger and square in shape. He wore a collared shirt that hung loose at the shoulders. His name was Hu Hei.

“Just, little things.” Biming said, “I don't think he makes anything practical. He just cuts into wood and tries to make little designs or something. He had a refuse pile near a log, you could tell that's where he sits. He was still thinking about those birds when we sat down there, and I asked if he could make me a bird. He said he'll see what he can do.”

“Your cousin sounds like an interesting man. Does he have a collection of carvings perhaps?” professor Gao Song asked from the head of the table. His wife quietly entered the room and began asking if anyone wanted any beer to drink, a few said yes and she soon disappeared in the kitchen for a few bottles.

“I never saw any. I suppose if he makes anything worth keeping it might give it away.”

“And on those birds.” another student said with a raised voice, a square jawed man with a set of eyes that seemed to gaze distantly, “I don't suppose you're going to try and design an airplane after them?” he asked with a laugh.

Biming shook his head, “No. But that would be nice. But I don't know where I should start.”

“Maybe later.” the square-jawed man said.

“Huang Guang, you have anything interesting to tell?” asked the professor. The square-jawed man considered for a moment and shrugged, “If we're talking about animals I was walking around Qiangdao Island with my girlfriend at the water side. At some point we stop to look at the water. A moment later an old man stops next to us and starts tossing small bits of bread and shit into the water. Some large fish, carp or something come up and start eating at the scraps he's feeding them. Up until this large monster of a fish enters the fray and things turn violence.

“My girlfriend starts laughing as the water is splashed by all these fish fighting with the big fish for food. This goes on until the old man finishes his bag, maybe fifteen minutes. And he turns to us, nods his head, and walks the way we came. Without any food the water clears and the fish disperse.”

“I have something similar.” Hu Hei interjects, “It's not mine specifically. But it's a story I heard none the less. Apparently there was a fisherman down south on the river with a boat in the early morning. Somewhere nearby a flock of ducks land. Moments later he claims to have seen a large fish rise from the water and swallow a duck whole before disappearing into the murky water and the mud. My brother said he heard it from a friend who was down there on a trip.” the table laughed. It counted.

Gao Song's wife reentered the room, circling the table Gao Zhen placed a bottle of beer infront of everyone who said they'd have one. “Dinner will be ready in a moment.” she said cheerily. Her cheeks glowing in the warm light of flickering candles and lanterns.

“Thank you.” a chorus echoed as she left, and in strolled a young girl carrying a thin young black cat.

Smiling the professor said, “So we adopted a new member a couple weeks ago.” he said, holding a hand out and gently scratching behind the ears of the nervous cat in the young girl's arms. “Or rather Liling did. I was apprehensive at first but I suppose it warmed on me.”

“Oh boy, how'd this happen?” a student asked.

“Well I suppose finding fish in the tree is sometimes possible when you try. Or at least when someone puts them there.” Song said, “Liling picked her up on the way home from school.” he began as the young girl walked around the table letting the guests pat the nervous feline on the head. It was jet black with glowing yellow eyes. At each stretch of the hand it would try to push back, but the young girl's arms were too tight. In the end it surrendered to the generosity of each touch and comforted, “By the time I noticed, my little jasmine had her well at home and there was no use getting rid of it. Her ear was cut, and Zhen had to head out into Fengtai to find an animal doctor to look into it. Apart from the one injury, she got a clean bill of health.”

“What are you naming it?” asked a student.

“Oh, that's up to Liling.”

“What is she naming it?”

“Hou.” the table laughed.

“That's a funny name.” they pointed out.

“I know, but not my cat.” Song said with an indifferent shrug.

Song's wife again materialized from the kitchen, this time carrying a metal tea pot and a tray full of small tin cups. She set them on the table, “Tea for anyone who wants it.” she said.

Following her was a young boy, maybe two years younger than Liling. He was perhaps twelve. He had a wild head of unbrushed hair and he helped carry in a tray full of bowls of soup which were quickly served to each of the seated guests. “We're almost ready.” said Zheng in a warm tone, there was relief at the edge, knowing all on her end was beginning to wrap up.

“I had the opportunity to eat cat years ago.” another student chimed in, “Maybe... five?” he said thinking. He was dexterous looking with an athletic look. His hair was combed tight against his skull which narrowed nearly to a rounded point, and again likewise at the chin. “It was a student trip when I was in primary school and we were seeing Hong Kong and where Hou began his career. We stopped over at a small place tucked neatly away, just big enough to house us all. Unwittingly I and my friends opted to a dish that contained cat and we ate it. The meat has a strange taste to it, I can't place it. But I didn't like it very much.”

The table broiled with disgust. All of them from the north there was agreement eating cat was unacceptable. As they ate their soup they continued exchanging stories, going in a circuit around the table until they had exhausted their options. By this point, the main meal was out and everyone was starting to dig in.

“Comrade professor,” a student started as he served himself a stack of dumplings from the spread laid out on the table. By this time with the food all sorted Zheng seated herself next to the head with her husband and with a relieved look was going about to partake in the food at hand. The son who had been with her had appeared and disappeared from the kitchen holding onto several plates and shuffled off elsewhere. “I have heard a lot about your lectures from Guang, and I want to know what your thoughts on Hou.” said a student, the young man known as Guang, with the narrowing brow and chin looked up expectantly to observe the conversation.

“What is the occasion?” Song asked, piling up rice with his chopsticks.

“I was talking one day with a foreign yankee living here in China who pointed out that it seems to him Hou's work is nearly everywhere, or should be. But that many people don't seem to see it. He seemed to suggest that as a leader he should be an involved man, or at the least be a man to make statements on what is happening in the world. But so far he hasn't. To him, he claims to remember the last time Hou has firmly commented on things was in the early fifties.”

The professor nodded and tapped his chopsticks on his plate as he parsed together his thoughts. “He doesn't have to.” he said.

“How is that?” asked the student.

“In the tradition of China a leader is most often an individual who delegates. Or more ideally is one to act behind the scenes. In China's recent past it was the mandarins of the Qing who were the public face of the Imperial court, while it was known that the Emperor was at the head, it was broadly seen and recognized as the Qing court and its tendrils as the face of proclamation and action. Less so perhaps during the Republic, where its rule was so tenuous the generals in its army became their own face in ensuing warfare. But Hou has readopted the imperial policy.”

“Yet he is not an emperor.” the student pointed out.

“That is for the best.” Biming quipped.

“It is, but it's also for the best that Hou's position has thus far been unchallenged.” Song said, “I foresee terrible times for China if at this time it has to negotiate elections.”

“How is that so?”

“As recognized by Sun Yat-Sen, the full breadth and conditions of liberty are not wholly realized by the Chinese people. For thousands of years the Chinese people have only known central authority beyond their grasp, they are not trained to think democratically, and they will not overnight realize they have options as the Party or its more radical counterparts wish to be.

“I am not saying China is without hope on this. But Hou and his Party have considerable work ahead of them to erode the Old Ways.”

“How might Hou possibly want to erode the old beliefs when he uses them?” asked Guang, looking over at the student who had initiated the table conversation, “As has been debated in class what does it mean really for the state ideology in moving ahead that it drags behind it the chain of the past? I do not really think Hou wishes to erode these positions, and I still stand by that position. But what is new about Hou's philosophy when it is referential and relies so heavily on the old traditions?”

“Are you trying to imply that Hou is mixing Marxism into Confucianism, or Confucianism into Marxism?” asked Biming.

“He is saying that Hou is reconciling Taoism with Marxism.” professor Song smiled, “Which is on point. But he is using it in such a way to give pause for the reconsideration on how the ancient texts are written.”

“It sounds like he's disagreeing with you.” Biming said.

“He disagrees with another student in the class, but besides the point.” Song said. Guang bowed.

“As in Confucianism,” continued Guang, “as we explored in the class, while the student is subservient to the master, the master is not immune to the student's questions or challenges. Likewise is the government not immune to the critiques of the people.”

“Hou has outlined this.” Song said, “From a philosophical perspective it is not as if he is negating Confucianism by saying it is wrong from an external. He's pulled from the Analects to imply that there is not an absolute top-down flow of power. For the rest of the Chinese people, he tries to de-alienate Communism and European popular liberation ideology by making comparisons with what exists in our own canon to make it immediately palpable. He's also since 1954, '55, or '56 began practicing what it was he preached and slipped further into the background, about the time political parties returned to China.

“However, while Guang asserts that Hou is fully canonizing Marxism as Chinese by referring to the ancient texts I have to propose a correction – probably – to the analysis and say that while Laozi and Confuxi are being appropriated to make elective government appear less alien to the broad masses and de-alienate it, a man like Hou is simply not a resource that can be quietly dispensed with in an election, not like in the Philippines with Priscilla's departure.”

“How so?” asked the student who had begun it.

“Namely, it would be immature. Hou understands his methodology more completely than anyone else. He can write about it and explain it, but in the climate of China's politics many of the representatives still act as if they were Mandarins and their political allegiances shift organically day to day. While there is a large core of officers in Hou's party many of the rest start off one month as a Unionist and might the next move to the 2nd Movement, or to Hou's Party, and vice-versa. No one has yet learned the political realities in China and for us to hold an election now would invariably entail we elect a snake who will sell out or change the national principle before we know it. An election might well kill the revolution now, but Hou seems to have a trust that these people will not create the conditions to endanger it.”

“Though, given what is happening had has happened in countries outside of China,” Hei said, between mouthfuls of food, “is democracy the safest course of action? As you admit we need Hou, he is the only one who understands. And assuming that someday in the future China is to understand what he is he's thinking; wouldn't Democracy ultimately weaken China to the pressures of capitalists? Look at America: Hou even criticizes the Americans for having lost their democracy. Democracy is an open door to any ideology, what comes it. And all it takes is for them to enter. The very revolution in China would be threatened if in absence of Hou, capitalism reasserts itself in China and spoils the work my father and my uncles have done in this country. And by the very notion of democracy, that which is the popular opinion of the country is ultimately right, never mind what happens after. If we democratically elect a capitalist, we spit on the graves of our fathers.”

“That is bourgeoisie democracy.” Gao Song said, “It is easier for the bourgeoisie of a country to say, 'Look! It is what what most of the people want! And so it shall!'.” he took a moment to take a drink of beer, “But this is a half-democracy, a hidden dictatorship of the bourgeoisie built on the appeal to the majority as made by the dollar. In the end, what Hou has manifested from the old writings, and innumerate from Marx is that democracy, and the dictatorship of the Proletariat is a democracy of meeting where all barriers to political discoursed are lowered so all might participate. That majority opinion be not just a one-way dialog of ideology but also of consensus; as in the village community.”

The table murmured, until someone spoke up, “Ms. Ghao, what do you think?”

She looked up and smiled politely, “I don't think about it.” she admitted, “I just handle the house, the groceries, and the parties.”

“That is a shame.” Biming said, “But you do cook the best dinner ever.” the table nodded in agreement.

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

@Letter Bee

I think you need to reconsider the pace at which your moving with agricultural development. In the two or three months this RP's lore as progressed the Philippines has grown internally far faster than should be possible. They've developed a new method of agriculture, wind turbines, and new fertilizer. In one way or another, that's far too much to dump into the lore as technological or scientific contributions from a still developing, agricultural economy and I have to request you slow down.

I'm willing to make concessions on the new farm model, if it's acknowledged it is currently severely limited and has yet to be introduced across the entire islands. As well, the wind turbines require a vast amount of pre-requisite development that would be better handled by more developed countries like the US or western Europe: turbines for power generation require stable power storage and light weight metals like aluminum. These too you can keep on the condition that at some near point it's shown they are ultimately unreliable hack-jobs for the entire communities they're supposed to power.

But for as small a thing as it seems, I can not let you keep the new fertilizer. As off-handed as it seems it's sudden introduction in the expanding Philippine arsenal of tools raises warning flags. You have to cut that.

The meat of the matter is that bringing these in so off-handed acknowledges to me that you are overlooking the actual development process for these technologies and developments. There is no period of in-universe research, no identifying and studying a problem, no design work, and no acquiring funds and materials for a long and tedious building and testing process, all within the RnD process. If you're willing too to release something so quickly then I expect that it be treated like the snake oil you're making it out to be and I'm starting to expect the Philippines to go through some sort of Lysenko collapse through immature policies and programs.

I am calling for you to slam the brakes on this matter now.

New Guild! New Me!

10/10, wouldn't take out a home mortgage on because drowning in avocado love.

Just random books

Machenschaften - pl. -machinations, wheeling and dealing.

Diaperposters general

Hider

What's the deal with white people?

https://youtube.com/watch?v=bea9aFBGuwQ

@gorgenmast

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

I'll try to have a post up when I can, I've had to complete a lot of college projects and shiz lately, compounded on assembling some personal projects irl as well.

@WrongEndoftheRainbow

Not like the Guild's been down for a while either. But IRL comes before RP, as much as we might meme; or demand posts.

Void of Novira: Scramble for Interplanetary Colonization (Now Open)

New Auslassia

Milbury

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.”

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

@WrongEndoftheRainbow

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