Zendel

Cassius' shop was in its usual state of repair, but for once wasn't quite empty of customers. A gentlemen dwarf was assembling something that could, possibly, have been a weapon. It looked like an oversize pipe, covered in runes, with a pistol-grip handle, and six runestones along its side. The top was lined with a pair of flat metal plates, each decorated with dwarven text. The dwarf seemed pleased. Cassius looked like a proud parent.

At the sound of the door jingle, both of them glanced up at me, my presence shattering the mood. The dwarf nodded his thanks at Cassius, mumbled something quietly, and wrapped the item in some rough-knit gray cloth. The package safely tucked under his arm, he gave me half a nod as he stepped past me out through the door. Cassius continued to smile as he cleaned up the paperwork from the sale.

I took the moment to remove my hat and rub my arm across my forehead. It was blistering out there.

"What's on your mind, Greyson?" Cassius asked as I slowly made my way down the steps.

I rubbed my cheek, then tossed my hat on the counter. "I just came to say you were right."

"Great!" Cassius proclaimed, snapping shut the leather suitcase and tucking it out of sight somewhere behind the counter. "About what?"

"The assassin," I said. "Just an elf with a toy, nothing more."

"Yeah, I figured as much," He said without coming up. "No one can simply teleport. It's just not the way the world works."

"But here's the part where I get confused, Cash," I said. "In that Theo Jungle there are recorded, documented sightings of a flickering monkey. It's able to warp from location to location, exactly like our elf."

"Yep. The Flickering Monkey, Shade Deer, Kennans, and Yurin Sponge are all teleporters," He said, standing again. He was covered in dust.

"What were you doing down there?" I asked, worried about derailing the conversation, but at the same baffled to the point of curiousity.

He nodded towards the door, grinning. "The dwarf was a preferred customer. Lots of paperwork that needs to be kept hidden." He grabbed a rag and used it to rub clean his hands, either unaware of the dust on his face, or unconcerned. "But let's not get off track," He said, gesturing. "What's your question?"

"How come animals can teleport, but the sentient races can't?"

He grinned. "Have you heard of the Zendel?" I shook my head. "They were a race that lived on South Liena, back when that area was largely unclaimed wilderness. They actually fought with the Zanti, back in the day."

The Zanti were a dead race, reaching their prime before humans set foot on South Liena. Before the dwarves, even. I whistled. "That's surprising. I thought the Zanti basically had run of the continent."

"Of the habitable continent, yeah," Cash said. "But South Liena was and is still mostly a jungle. Too dangerous for large scale habitation. The Zendel live at the edge of the forest, and like your flickering monkey, they were teleporters.

"However, unlike them, and most of the races alive today, they were also sentient. It made fighting them difficult, and the Zanti never really did more than harass them. Of course, the opposite was also true. The Zendel were able to flicker in and out, but once they arrived at a place, they were just as easy to kill as the Zanti they surprised. For a long time, that stalemate persisted."

He took a long drink of water and I waited, then clearing his throat, Cassius continued. "Now, this changed dramatically one day."

"What happened?" I asked.

"Humans arrived," He said with an ominous grin. "The Dwarven nations had already set up shop to the north, preferring the slightly chiller climates. Humans came south, encountered the Zanti, and defeated them."

He was summing up five hundred years of prolonged conflict in a few quick sentences. I was impressed. He wasn't done, though.

"Now, after the battle of Fin Xixi, the whole of the Zanti land essentially laid in human hands. Colonists flowed out, set up shop, and began to grow crops. It was then that the Zendel attacked.

"At first these attacks were devastating. Human settlements burned by the dozen. As quick as a farmhouse or mill could be constructed, the Zendel would attack, and it would get burnt down. This went on for ten, twenty years maybe."

"And then?" I prompted, just to feed his ego. He smiled.

"And then the humans burned down the forest, and slaughtered them whole sale. The Zendel teleportation only worked over a set distance, so the humans created tactics that essentially forced the Zendel to leap into traps. And the Zendel eventually, were wiped out."

I waited. Cash took another sip of his water.

"And then?" I asked, when it became clear we were waiting for nothing.

"That's it. Teleporting sentients, and they were killed off. Every last one of them. Even the Zanti fared better."

"Okay. Why did you just tell me this?" I asked.

"Isn't it obvious?" He said. "The  Zendel had one thing they did well. They teleported. Who knows what price this took, what cost it put onto their shoulders. Teleporting is tricky, and from an energy point of view, very very expensive. We can get away with it magically because we cheat. We tap into the earth, or the heavens, or even the ether to help power our devices. Heck, in a pinch, you can extract a good amount of mana from gasoline, if you burn it just right. The Zendel evolved to teleport, which meant they also had to evolve all the necessary supporting bits for it to happen, in the same way a bat had to evolve hollowed wings.

"Now, all this work to make them teleport means they relied on it. From a survival standpoint, being able to teleport was amazingly useful. However, humans, dwarves, elves, skithan... we defy evolutionary advantages. We're adaptable. We can use sticks, stones, guns, swords, magic, technology. We can do whatever we can, and we can find ways to let us teleport. We can also find ways to eliminate that as an advantage.

"In short, Mr. Greyson. There are no sentient races with magic powers because every time they show up, we, the collected jackasses of the world, find a way to kill them. We let the monkeys live because they don't threaten us." He was grinning in a way that made me want to hit him. "Isn't it beautiful?"

I shook my head, then placed my hat back on my head. "No, Cassius. That's terrible."

He shrugged, tossed his rag away. "That's the world we live in."

Leery's was a small bar about a stone's throw from the middle-most pier of Cardonia's sprawling bay. It catered, largely, to travellers arriving a night, promising good booze, a good night's rest, and good company. I had heard that of those three, only the middle was true, but after weeks at sea, the other two were oft considered "good enough." I wasn't seeking any of the three though.

I was dressed plainly in my grey suit, cut in the modern fashion. Samuel Archer, my former mentor and, for the moment, client, was in a similar getup. It was useful as it allowed us to walk through busy streets without looking like fugitives from the law. Twice we passed bored cops without them so much as glancing at us. Once, possibly out of spite, Archer stopped and bummed a cigarette from one of them. He tossed it away moments later with a shrug. Despite being delcared an enemy of the Empire, Archer didn't seem to be actively pursued.

Still, I was nervous. Our suits didn't afford us nearly the invisibilty out here among the docks. Our suits were in harsh contrast to the blue uniforms most of the dock workers wore, and even the managers tended to shed the hat and jacket, preferring a white shirt and blue tie. Customers and clients wore suits, but they were unlikey to be prowling around outside Leery's at the Prince's hour.

I gave Archer a quick nod, and stepped out of the comfort of darkness, aiming to seem perfectly at ease as I strolled under the amber crystlamp. Archer walked beside me, looking carefully at ease. It wasn't true, but it made for good copy, the two of us strolling along as if the world was at peace.

We reached the door without a shout and slipped inside without incident, and I paused at the doorway to enjoy the moment of relief. While it was possible we'd still be arrested, Leery had paid his bribes (much like every responsible brothel owner does), and the police were apt to respect his privacy. If any of the RPF were here, they'd be clients, not constables.

Archer scanned the place, his calm still covering up his tension. "I don't know where we're going, Greyson," He said after a moment. "But I don't think it suits us to be standing here."

I let that slide. Archer was feeling sufficiently better, and had begun to resume his role as boss. Nevermind that I had quit working for him months previous. Nevermind that I had moved my business north to Xen Lenora, had my own caseload and my own clients. I even had my own secretary. Archer was used to being in charge, and was used to me following his lead. It was aggravating, especially when I was busy saving his life.

Instead, I made my way casually to the bar and rapped my knuckles thrice on the table. After a pause, I rapped twice more, then I looked away and waited. Archer waited too, but I had no idea if he picked up on the code. My goal had been subtlety, but Archer was like a hawk when he wanted to be.

After a moment, the bartender came over. "Can I help you gentlemen?" He asked with a gruff voice.

"I need to see Leery," I said quietly. "I got a shipment for him."

The bartender nodded, then moved away. He returned with two mugs filled with beer. "Third table on the right," He said. "I'll let Leery know you're here."

I handed one of the mugs to Archer, then walked casually over to the third table. Once seated I took a deep drink. Archer looked at his drink disinterested.

"Have a drink," I said.

"I don't care for beer. You know that Greyson."

I sipped again. "Have a drink, Sam. You're being observed."

He stared at me for a fraction of a second, disbelief evident in his face. Then, casually, he took a sip, then set it down.

"Yep," He said. "Still beer."

"Good beer," I defended. It wasn't, really. "But more importantly, cursed beer."

"Cursed?" He asked, looking a little alarmed. I grinned.

"Nothing major. It's just how Leery conducts his Aura read. There's a marker in the beer which makes allows him to focus on us. Likewise, we're sitting in a good place to be observed."

Archer looked around without looking. "Seems elaborate."

"Has to be," I said. "Now be a good boy and have another drink."

He had another sip, followed by another wince. "So, where are we going?" He asked, trying to change the subject.

"Old town," I said. "A friend will be meeting you there and getting you relocated."

"Meeting us," He corrected me, then after a pause. "You're going to, aren't you?"

It was a logical assumption. Our occupations were identical, after all. The Imperial Council had, that morning, passed a law banning non-guild investigation services. Snidely, some in the Council Hall had named it "Archer's Law," and it was even referred to that in the Chamber Archives while discussions were being held. Archer had solved an important case, a high-profile case, and his client had decided to pay him back by being exceedingly critical of the local police, the Bureau of Truth, and the Empire as a whole to every news organization that would listen. The response, issued the next day, was to discredit Archer's achievement in editorials and using planted evidence. After that, the Imperial Council quietly set about to shut him (and all non-guild detectives) down.

Archer's Law would apply to any one who offered investigative services on an independent basis. It was publicly stated as a way to help strengthen the integrity of the field, but really it was just a way to shut out anyone who might reveal anything unpleasant about the Empire. The guilds, all of them, were under the thumb of the government, and they were given a very narrow path to follow. Archer and I were both the type to reject these constraints.

Now, it seemed like my path was to flee the city. Perhaps that was why I shook my head in response. "I can't go," I said. "Or I won't. Take your pick."

He stared at me, and I avoided his gaze. "Why not?" He finally asked.

"I can't walk away," I said. "Not yet."

"What's stopping you?" He said it calmly, but I knew there was more to the question, left unspoken. What would exist that would keep me but still require him to go.

"I can't go into it," I said. It was an hour of explanations when we had five minutes. My business was secure, my true occupation covered up by a nice legal front. My clientele was increasing, both in number and discretion. By avoiding the lime-light, I had found a niche. In addition, I had contacts, in the governments, and to some degree, I knew how the council thought. I was using these connections to connect sympathetic council members with "rebel" leaders. There was a chance that all of the insanity could end. All it would take was for the tide to shift, and the council could, potentially anyway, swing back to the realm of sanity.

Finally, there was Aleea. I couldn't tell him about her.

We shared an uncomfortable silence. A minute passed, and another slowly ticked by. I sipped more of my beer, and Archer pushed his away. I scanned the crowd, hoping to see something more interesting than sailors getting drunk and being propositioned by the street walkers. Archer continued to stare at me.

Eventually, a door behind the bartender opened a quarter, paused, and then slipped open completely. A dark elf, ashen grey in color, strolled up to us, wearing a dirtied white apron. He snatched a chair from another table, turned it around backwards, and sat, giving us a good grin.

"Some tension here, eh?" He said by way of saying hello. Archer glared at him, though I don't know if it was because he was a dark elf, or because he was an ass. With Archer it could be possibly both.

"Hey Leery," I said. He gave me his customary grin.

"Thomas Greyson, man of the hour, so I hear. Police reports have been put out for someone matching your description, leading fugitive Archer. They don't know where you've gone." I nodded, but didn't otherwise reply. Leery grinned even wider. "I assume you're here to make use of my gateway, then."

Archer gave him something resembling an affirmative. Leery chuckled. "I know what's it's like man, I'm right there with ya." Archer was unmoved by Leery's attempt to bond; fortunately Leery wasn't the type to care much. "Now you know the price. I'd normally double it because you're fugitives, but I like you two, so we'll just add a more modest twenty-five percent."

I slipped out six King Franks, and laid them on the table. Leery stared at them fondly, then moved his hand over them, sliding them up with a smooth motion. "That's what I like about you Thomas, you know how to please a man." He rolled up the bills, then paused. "One ticket?"

"He's staying behind," Archer said, his voice held steady. "Can't say why."

"Maybe he can't afford me," Leery winked. "If you'll just come with me."

I started to stand, but Archer put his hand on my wrist and pulled me back down. "We'll be right there, Leery." He said quietly.

Leery shrugged, and said, "I'll be waiting for you two at the bar. Don't keep me waiting too long."

"You're sending me off," Archer said after a moment. "Why?"

"Because I need you alive," I said. "Because Archer's Law is about you. There's no bribe I can pay, no official I can blackmail that will change that. The rest of us rats can go to ground, avoid the spot lights, but you're a walking target right now. You get caught, you know they're going to use every dirty trick they know to get you locked up for a potentially long time. They're not going to mess around, because Archer's Law is worthless if it doesn't shut you down."

"But if I leave, I'll be shut down," He said. "You'll have finished what they started."

"Stop it," I replied. "You're not dead. You're out of sight. This gives you back the freedom they're so keen to take away. This allows you to live again."

"For what?" He spat. "Away from my job, my life, my city? You think freedom is worth all of this?"

"This?" I said. "Your city just sent cops to your house. Your life has been spent in a Red Amber haze for the last three years. Your job..." I looked away. "You are your job, Archer. Wherever you end up, Archer, you'll keep on doing exactly what you've been doing. That, more than anything, is the point."

"Why won't you come, then?" He asked, after a heavy sigh. "If you're going to force me to start over, the least you could do is help.

I smiled, knowing this was coming. I had my answer ready. "I don't work for you, Archer. Not anymore."

He stared at me for a long moment, then nodded. His face was set in a scowl. He slipped his hat back onto his hat. "I'll see you around, Greyson." And he walked away, I made to follow, but stopped and watched instead. He went to Leery without looking back, exchanged a few words, and Leery gave me a hesitant glance. I shrugged, and he returned it subtly.

Then shaking his head, he pushed open the back door and let Archer through. Leery gave me one last glance, then let the door close. I took a deep breath, and sat back down in my chair. My beer was nearly empty. Archer's was barely touched. I stared at those two glasses for a while, then slipped my own hat on.

It was time to go home.

The Haze

Mother says we should never get too close to it, but parents are all like that. Tommy's mom says the exact same thing. The Haze is dangerous, they say. Dark things lurk out there. It's just waiting for you to wander into it and then Snap.

But it's not true. Tommy and I threw rocks into it, and the haze puffed slightly as it accepted them. Later, we tried using sticks, both of us pushing against them until they pierced the skin of the haze and disappeared into nothingness, and then pulling until the end came back. The stick was always unharmed, though it was cold to the touch. If something was lurking there, we would have seen it. The fact is that the haze doesn't want us. You have to throw a rock as hard as you can before it'll disappear, and it took both of us to get the stick to pierce the skin.

One thing that's fun to do is to throw yourself against it. It feels almost like a sheet made of ash. It'll stop you, and push you back. Tommy and I did that all day once, taking turns sprinting towards it and throwing ourselves upside down into it. We stopped when Tommy's mom caught us. She freaked out.

She's different than my mom. My mom grew up in Old Town, and didn't ever touch the haze, play with it. Tommy's mom, though, grew up near the haze, and she learned all about it.

The haze, she said, is where the Distant City ends. There is nothing beyond it, and the haze is just a barrier that keeps us safe and alive. It's designed to protect the whole of the city, so it will accept things that are pushed hard into it, because the shield would sooner be pierced than risk failing. Apparently, if it failed, we'd all be thrown into the nothingness.

Tommy isn't so sure. He has seen men in suits who are able to enter and leave the haze at will. He's tried to tell his mom, but she doesn't listen to him. He wants us to follow them, and discover what really is on the other side.

I don't know what to believe, so I'm leaving you this note. If I come back safely, you can just ignore it. I'll know by then what's on the other side.

But if I don't come back, please don't come after me. It's possible Tommy's mom is right, and if she is, I think we'll be dead.

I won't want to be dead, but I do want to see what's on the other side. Wish me luck.

--Roger Ian Post, Age 10

The Murder

"Do I know you?" The RPF's voice barked out from his yellow hooded raincoat. The storm was making a mess of the light, so the question may not have been as sarcastic and hostile as it sounded. I smiled politely.

"Just the guy who found the body," I said, jerking my thumb over my shoulder. The Cop nodded, shaking free a small spray of water from his head, and looked at his clipboard. A small attractor burned blue, and water that would have fallen on the board collected there instead. It was an expensive trick, but useful on days like this.

He scanned down the page with his finger, then said, "Greyson?"

"That's me," I said. "Thomas Greyson, man of no real importance."

The cop grunted at that. He made a mark on his clipboard, flipped to a new page, then said, "Alright, so what happened?"

"My," I paused and looked over at Rynna, who was leaning against the lamppost looking board. She was dressed in tailored elven explorers garb, which consisted a customized leather jumpsuit and black shoes. She had more pockets on that then a peacock has tail-feathers. Most of them had knives. Words continued to fail me, and when I finally grasped at something, I knew it was a poor choice. "My date and I were walking home from the movies, when we came upon two individuals fighting in the street. I had her wait while I rushed forward to stop them. As I approached, the first gentlemen ran, and the second," I said pointing to the corpse, "Collapsed. I tried to administer first aid, and Rynna called you guys."

The cop wrote this down with quick strokes, then said, "What's your full name?"

"Thomas Greyson," I said.

"And your occupation?"

I stopped, cleared my throat. "I'm unemployed."

"Really?" The cop said quietly. "Unemployed." I shrugged. There was an uncomfortable pause, then he said. "So what did you do?"

"I was mostly recently working for the Harbo Guard Service," I said. "But that was a few years ago. Before I came into money."

"Money?" He perked up.

"Do you want me to describe the individual?" I asked.

"Maybe in a moment," The cop said. "Let's talk about the money. Where did it come from?"

"My uncle," I said. "He worked some plantations up in Arana, and split them among my cousins and I. I sold mine off."

He looked at me. I looked back. I was lying and we both knew it, however there was a chance he'd let it go.

It was a small chance, apparently. "Good land up in Arana," He said, making a mark with his notebook. "Lots of grain."

I shrugged. "I'm not much of a farmer," I said.

"So what are you?"

I opened my mouth, then closed it. I could see Rynna getting inpatient. "I'm the guy who saw someone commit murder," I said. "You remember the murder, don't you?"

The cop glanced at the body, then grinned at me. "Doesn't look like he's going anywhere."

Rynna pushed herself off the lamppost and began to walk over.

"Look, officer," I said, making one last ditch effort before Rynna arrived. Things had a tendency to get worse when she got involved. "I think the man who ran was a member of the Rothi Crime Syndicate. I'm reasonably confident that this was a hit."

"Oh are you?" He said, crossing his arms. Rynna moved to stand behind him, but his attention was focused squarely on me. "And how would you know anything about the Rothi Crime Syndicate?"

It was too late. "Look, just be gentle," I said, looking right at the cop.

He laughed. "I'm just asking you some-"

There was a thump, audible over the sound of the rain falling. And the cop collapsed. Rynna looked at me, holding the knife backwards so that its weighted hilt made contact with the back of his skull. "Gentle enough?" She said.

I shook my head, then bent down and ripped the cop's sheet from the clipboard. Then for added measure, I took his wallet and and gems, including the attractor. Freed from it's focus, the gem darkened and water started dotting the remaining pages on the clip-board. I tucked it all away and stood. "Shall we go?" I asked.

"About time," Rynna said. "Why did you bother calling them in anyways?"

I shook my head as we began to walk off. It was difficult to explain to Rynna, a child born and raised in the Etherrealm, knowing everything of the Distant City and little beyond. "I'll tell you about it later."

We walked into the rain, the silence between us heavy.

Writing Prompt: That was when I invented it

Cassius Carson leaned back in his chair, and flicked a copper strand into the air. It sailed with a practiced ease into a pile of similar junk. He grinned and templed his fingers. "So what exactly are you looking for?" He said, rolling his head to face me.

"The White Guard are seeking someone named Daniel Craigsen. They seem to think he was involved in Zelena's death."

"Danny boy?" Cassius scoffed. "Danny's a simpleton, a coward, and a gentlemen besides. If he had anything to do with Zelena, it was likely a setup."

I shrugged. There was too much evidence pointing both ways for me to feel comfortable committing to a side. I said as much to Cassius.

"Greyson, you're a sap. Look, if you accept the official story that Danny did it, you have to explain who's working so hard to make him look good. On the other hand, if Danny's innocent, and someone's trying to make a chump out of him, then you only have to explain who'd benefit by putting the guilt onto his shoulders."

He had a point. I didn't know Daniel well enough to assume he was innocent, but I knew Cassius. Cassius had a good sense for people, even if no one ever got along with him.

"I'll keep that in mind," I said. "But I'd still like your help finding him."

"I don't know where he is." Cassius said with a shrug.

"He's fled to the Northern Wastes, actually." I said quietly. "Humphry thinks he knows the tribe, but we need help locating them. They move around a lot."

"So, if I might skip ahead a little, you need some artifact that could track Danny, or more likely, you want something that will speed up the searching."

"Yeah, and-"

"And," Cassius continued, holding up a hand, "You need something that will be immune to the Chaos Storms, even though nothing is immune to them."

I smiled. "Cassius, you're the best."

"No, well, yeah." He leaned forward. "You're lucky, I happen to have something almost exactly like that."

"Really?" I sputtered. "I expected this might take you some time."

"It did. About six months ago. I was studying the storms, and discovered a few things of note."

"Why were you studying the chaos storms?"

He stopped, then grinned. "No reason." And whistled as he led me down to his lab.

Writing Prompt: Hopefully the batteries would run out and he would stop talking soon.

The phone rattled in its cradle, the buzzer struggling to rattle the rusted joints. I poured some coffee into my cup, and stirred it with a dirty spoon. There was a pause, then it started again. Humphry leaned in close, resting his tan cheek on the dirt-stained desktop, his eyes going cross-eyed slowly as he stared at it. "What does it want?" He asked quietly.

Humphry was originally from the northern wastes. Because of some nasty chaos storms, artifacts largely didn't function there, and those few that did had a tendency to overload. The Gremlin Nomads made their homes there, and were fascinated with the technological marvels of their southern neighbors, and often collected broken scraps to study and trade around. This obsession gave their camps the appearance of mobile junk-yards, and there was a popular rumor that Gremlins sought to break things so that they could be taken back North.

Realistically, Gremlins weren't cursed. When it came to technology, though, they were curious and just the slightest bit clumsy. Humphry was more careful than others of his tribe, though likely that was due to experience. He had been exiled from the Northern Wastes many years before, and had lived comfortably inside the Empire, both above ground and in the under-city. Still, the most random things struck his fancy.

"It wants me to answer it," I replied, watching him carefully. The phone was not in the best of shape, and was just about to join its brethren in a Gremlin Camp. I had kept it going with a bit of luck and some small skill, because without it, I would likely be out of a job.

"Are you going to do it?" He grinned. "I would. It seems excited."

"Not this time, no." I went back behind my desk and collapsed into my chair. My feet went to their comfortable place on the corner, just a few inches shy of where Humphry crouched. The coffee was excellent, sweatened in the Jakara style, with red berry jam, cocoa powder, and the tiniest bit of rum.

"Why not?" His oversized eyes quivered with the rejection, and he looked like he was going to cry.

"Because it's the King's hour," I replied. "And only one person ever calls me during King's hour."

"The phone?" He asked innocently.

"The phone is not a person. It's just an artifact for communication. Someone is using another phone, somewhere, to contact me."

"Oh." His face curled in thought, "So it's like shouting, or smoke signals."

"Mystical shouting, but you're not far off."

"What a wonderful trick!" Humphry clapped his hands with excitement.

"It's... It's a good trick," I finally concurred. Let him enjoy the mundane. The buzzer began to clatter again, and Humphry went back to staring at it.

"I think the person wants to talk to you," He said quietly.

"I don't want to talk to the person, though. I'm allowed to not answer."

"Can I answer?" He asked. "If you're not going to."

I stopped just shy of stopping him, then grinned. "Sure Humphry, answer the phone. But you must swear to tell her I'm not here."

He thought for a moment, then nodded. "It's a deal!"

I gestured my acceptence to him, and sipped from my cup as he scooped up the phone. He balanced the phone in his hand, then carefully put it up to his head. "Is anyone there?"

Even from where I was sitting, I could hear her reply, "Where's Greyson."

"He's not here." Humphry announced, then winked at me.

"Where is he?" Her voice was harsh, and Humphry winced.

"I don't know." He replied, then, "I have to go."

He slammed the phone back onto the cradle, then sat back in the wooden guest chair. "I didn't like her." I nodded, and he grinned. "But I love this! Can I do this more?"

His eyes were practically glowing, and despite myself, I nodded. "Sure, as long as you're staying here, you may as well make yourself useful."

And that's how I Humphry the Gremlin became my secretary.

Writing Prompt: What a day to start daydreaming.

It was a midmorning when the cab dropped me off in front of Archer's place. He lived in one of the two-story brick houses that clustered along Cardonia's south wall. It was given to him as his reward for service during the Cabal Wars, and he treated it with the reverence such a gift deserved. The yard was over-grown with weeds, the stone steps were cracked and neglected. The house was covered in soot, and the bush was overgrown to the point of absurdity. A small wooden sign was staked into the ground, and glossy black letters read:
SAMUEL ARCHER
INDEPENDENT INVESTIGATIONS
**NOT GUILD CERTIFIED**
Below it were several smudges where, originally, he had scrawled his daily prices. He had tried to remove them, though I never found out if they were too low or too high.

I took the steps two at a time, nearly tripping as one came loose under me. His front door was never locked, and opened into a waiting room, which as far as I know had never been used. Beyond the waiting room was the door to his office, which usually stood open. The fact that it was shut implied that he had a client, and protocol implied that I should then wait to see him. Protocol was, at that moment, a complete waste of time. I threw open the door prepared to apologize, but unrepentant.

"Archer," I said, then stopped. He sat alone behind his desk, twirling a burnt out crystlamp on his desk with one hand. His other hand clutched a glass of Red-Amber spirit, the last from the bottle that sat on the floor. He didn't react to my sudden entrance, his gaze fixated on the inside of the sphere.

"Archer," I said again approaching. "Damnit, this is important!"

"I heard," He replied, his voice calm. "You don't need to get so worked up, Greyson."

I disagreed, of course. "You heard? I just came straight from the chamber. How could you have heard?"

He smiled, weariness in his eyes. "These kinds of decisions are made long before anything is proposed in the Chamber. " He sighed, then a flustered look crossed his face. "Where are my manners, can I get you a drink? The bottle is empty, but I have another stashed in my desk."

He pulled it out and gave me a conspiratorial smile. "Always have a stash , Greyson. Always. If you've learned nothing else from me. Learn that. It makes everything better."

"Damnit Archer, I don't want your liquor!" I went to the window and looked out, but couldn't see the street from where I was. "I need to get you away from here. Maybe put you down in the undercity, somewhere."

He had returned to staring at his burnt-out crystlamp. "Do you know, we still used torches and laterns when I was your age?" He said, grabbing the sphere and holding it up. "These were known to exist, but the common man would see them only in palaces, temples, and other very wealthy buildings. Now, even I have one. The same is true for the cars, the pistols. I have spent my years opposing the Cabal, but I can't help but feel that maybe they were right."

Archer let the sphere roll from his hand. It bounced on the desk, flickered slightly as it obsorbed the kinetic energy and attempted to convert it, one last time, into light, then it rolled onto the floor. Archer watched it roll, wobbling, across his floor. "I think it's time, Thomas. They want to arrest me, then fine." He leaned back in his chair, his girth stretching his stained shirt. "I'm too old and too tired to care. Let them come."

I wanted to scream at him, but he had taught me to control my anger. I wanted to drag him by his hair down to the curb, but he had taught me that strength was always a last resort. Instead I drew my pistol, calmly, and put it to his forehead.

"Sam," I said quietly, forcing him to looking into my eyes. "You're drunk, and you're a screw up, but you're my friend. Get your coat."

He stared at me, and sighed again, then snatched the bottle from his desk. "Why are you doing this to me? Why can you let me die in peace?"

I forced a grin. "I know you. You'd rather go out in a blaze of glory than rot away in a cell. You're morose now, but as soon as you hear those sirens, you'll fight. You'd never survive, of course, but you'd do it anyway, just to be spiteful."

"So? What's a few coppers, more or less?"

"I don't care a bit about coppers, but there will be a much better battle for you to die fighting for. I promise."

I held the door for him as we left through the back. We heard sirens as we followed the wall away from his house. Immediately, he scowled. "Greyson, I do believe you were right. There's something about that siren that just pisses me off. Who do they think they are?"

I wanted to reply, but nothing came to mind. Instead I pushed through a bush out onto a sidestreet. Archer followed, life returning to his step. "Gods, but it does feel good to be alive!" He exclaimed. "If for no other reason than to show those sons-of-bitches. So, what now?"

Archer stared at me, and I realized suddenly our roles had become reversed. For a decade, I had followed his every movement, learned every trick he would teach. Now he waited patiently for me to lead. It was unsettling.

"Let's get you out of sight," I said, trying to project confidence.

He nodded. "Good idea. There's an entrance to the undercity near the gate."

"It's too well known," I said, looking up the street. We couldn't stay here. I began to walk west. "We'll have better luck at the docks."

"Docks it is, then." He said, falling into step beside me. It was almost like old times.

Almost.

Writing Prompt:
I didn't understand what she was talking about and I didn't care.

She wore high heels, bright pink and covered with splatters of ink. Her legs bore the standard mark of an elf: low muscle, sleek, and long. She looked like a child, her red silken dress obviously designed for a human frame. She smiled, though, and it glowed. She held a cigarette in an extender, its plastic gleaming under the flickering neon lights.

"Telama nu?" She purred. I shrugged.

"I don't speak elf," I replied quietly.

She blinked, and looked the slightest bit hurt; her oversized eyes glistened. "Nola Ellanna?"

I sighed, and pulled the faded photo from my pocket. A warlock friend had given it a few passes in color, but the rain and moonlight was sapping it back to it's natural amber hue. The girl in the image was human, in her Sunday best, and smiling like nothing in the world would ever be wrong. I hoped that was still true for her, though the job seemed to imply that it wasn't. While some people did simply disappear, fleeing to a neighboring kingdom or even into the mist, all the signs pointed to trouble.

And in Harbro, trouble was most likely to be found in the underground.

"Have you seen this girl?" I asked the elf. She took the picture, glanced at it and rubbed the back of her neck in thought. A car passed on the cobblestone road, its tires cutting a streak through the puddle; its engine purring seductively. The elf flinched at the sound, then smiled apologetically and again stared at the picture.

"Decono, elma... Nola ryo mana," She finally said, passing it back.

"You haven't seen her?" I asked as I tucked the image back into my raincoat.

I don't think she understood my words, but she caught my drift and shook her head. "Ryo mana, nola."

I nodded and passed over a KingFran. Her eyes lit up at the bill, small through it was. She held it up to the streetlight, grinning visibly. I nodded politely at her and stepped past her into the neon-lit doorway, following the long dark stairway into the underworld.