Under The Bridge

by storybookknight

[Changeling: The Lost] A day in the life of Ross LaRoux, used car salesman in Chicago. Originally written as a character prelude, and then I lost control.

1. A Day In The Life

The rain fell like liquid silver, pattering on the dusty brick of the bridge in shimmering glissandoes that were hypnotic to the ear. Doing his best to ignore the fascinating aspects of the spectacle, he stretched out his hand into it, and winced. Still acid, though it didn't sting as bad as it had before. Reaching down, he looked at the pile of dust he had accumulated by slamming bits of brick into each other and rubbed it into the skin on his hand, leaving rust-red stains behind. This time when he stuck his hand into the storm, it wasn't nearly as painful, and he smiled, licking his lips as they cracked. Hurriedly he gathered up the remainder of the dust in his cupped hands and held it out into the storm, hoping to gather as much as possible before the silverstorm ended. When his hands were nearly full, he pulled the muddy mixture back to his lips, and drank…

The alarm went off, and Ross woke up with a start, his body clammy with sweat. For a second he stared at the ceiling, unable to place the room around him, and then he heard a faint, feminine sound of frustration next to him and remembered. This was his room, now, and he was in bed with his wife. He had a name, and a home, and was far away from brick-gossamer bridges or silver rain. As consciousness slowly returned, and with it clarity, Ross slowly turned and put his feet on the floor. Like usual, he reminded himself to be careful not to push too hard on the side of the bed as he stood.

"Morning sweetie. Did you sleep alright?"

Ross took a deep breath and did his best not to look back at the woman whose bed he had slept in, not trusting his face yet. "Mmmh. Bad dreams. You?"

"Like a log." As Ross finally felt composed enough to turn around, she smiled, looking a little concerned. Even in the morning, without makeup and with her hair in frizzy disarray, Jennifer was pretty. "Bad dreams? Anything in particular?"

Silver liquid running down his throat, binding to his tongue in a surge of molten agony - "Eh. Not really." He stood up, careful not to stand too straight or too tall, and walked over to the closet. Ross pulled it open and stared blearily at the shirts inside, trying to figure out which of them would accommodate shoulders that were several inches wider than the shoulders of the… person that had worn them last. With a shrug he grabbed one out and started trying to wrestle it on.

"Another one that shrunk in the wash? That's it. You are now hereby prohibited from doing your own laundry." Jennifer teased, her hand on the bathroom door. "If you don't need the bathroom, I'm going to take a shower."

"All yours." As the door behind her shut, Ross breathed a sigh of relief and stood up straight, pulling his arm out of the too-tight sleeve and throwing the shirt into the wastebin. Finally finding one of the shirts that he had bought at the big & tall shop, Ross put it on, along with the grey suit that he had had a friend tailor on short notice. As he closed the closet door, he looked at himself in the mirror and saw a monster in a suit; a hulking musclebound barrel-chested brute with brick-red skin, hourglass eyes, and garish silver lips.

"What a disgrace." He stuck his silver tongue out at the mirror and headed down the hall (being careful not to accidentally knock the paintings off the walls with his shoulders), then downstairs (trying not to land too hard on the steps) , and finally into the cramped kitchen. Rooting around in the refrigerator, he finally managed to find the eggs, then set a frying pan down on the stove. It made a rather loud thud, and Ross winced. Picking it back up, though, it seemed that there was no damage to the glass stovetop, and he let it back down more carefully, then switched on the heat.

The first egg went into the pan, and came out bloody. Fertilized, Ross thought. Huh. He cocked his head towards the stairs and heard the running water still going, then looked down at the pan. His mouth watered. No sense wasting it, I guess. He cracked another. Bloody again. Another, and even bloodier, with the red juices dripping out of the shell and into the pan and sizzling like steak au jus but smelling more like pork than chicken, and the sound of the shell cracking resembling a skull caught between baseball bat and the curb outside of a car dealership...

Ross hurriedly bit the inside of his lip, hard, and blinked rapidly. All three eggs stared at him unapologetically, with their golden irises unblinking inside white humours untainted by red. "Shit." He cracked one more egg into the pan, and sighed in relief as it came out normal. Ever since the Incident, Ross had been experiencing flashes of … disconnect with the world around him, moments that reminded him of Faerie, and the Bridge. In theory that was the sort of thing that got better with time, and normalcy; according to the Bishop, all Ross needed to do was seek low stress social environments and maintain a focus on telling the truth. Upstairs, the water stopped, and Ross gave a derisive snort. Yeah, like that'll happen anytime soon. Instead he grabbed a (more durable than a ceramic) plastic travel mug, and filled it with strong black coffee, adding copious amounts of cream and sugar.

Jennifer came down the stairs, her long brown hair still damp, and beamed at him like he was the greatest man in the world ( like he was even a man at all ). For a second, Ross was torn between feeling elated and guilty as hell, but she spoke and the moment passed. "Oooh, eggs! Two please!"

Ross blinked and looked down at the pan, four eggs sitting in it. "Sure thing." He put two on her plate, two on his, and then cracked another two in the pan.

"You're having four?" She asked, wrinkling her nose at him a bit.

"I'm going to the gym before work. Gotta keep up with the protein."

"Oh, right. Sorry, I'm still not used to you doing that every day. Ever since you got mugged, all of a sudden I don't think you've missed a day at the gym. Are you sure you aren't thinking about anything… rash?"

"No way, baby. What can I say? It motivated me." He took a sip of his coffee. "It was just so frustrating, you know? As fit as I was back in high school, nobody would have messed with me, and if I had to, I probably could have outran them. I'm just… trying to get back a little closer to who I was back then."

"You don't have to go every day, you know. You can start out slow."

"I know, but I know how I think. I gotta build up momentum, or it'll be too easy to stop."

"All right, all right. You can have your quarter-life crisis, just as long as you remembered to save me some coffee."
Ross checked. This time, he had. He gingerly took a mug out of the cabinet and set it on the counter, then poured with care. "And I'll even give it to you, since you were kind enough not to call it a mid-life crisis."

"You're the best husband ever. Way better than that other guy."

Ross did his best not to flinch. "Oh, I know," he muttered.

"Did you say something?" she asked as he handed her the mug.

"Huh?"

"I thought you said - "

"Aw, crap, the eggs!" Ross used the distraction to check on the stove, swearing internally. Did she actually say that? Or am I not just seeing things, but hearing them too? He peeked at her distorted reflection in the aluminum strip on the oven hood, but it was too blurry to make out her expression, so he finished scraping the eggs onto his plate and did his best to smile like nothing was wrong. "Sorry babe, what were you saying?"

She laughed. "I was asking you what you were saying!"

Ross paused a beat for (hopefully comic) effect, then gave her his best self-deprecating grin. "I… forget?"

She rolled her eyes at him. "That sounds about right." From around the corner into the living room, a white-furred yorkie terrier trotted into the room, and Jennifer's face lit up. "Oh, hello Pumpkin! Did you have a nice nap? Yes? Did you? I bet you did!"

As Ross came into view, Pumpkin stopped in her tracks and crouched, growling quietly. Ross did his best to look hurt. "What, Pumpkin! What? It's just me! See?" He bent down and stretched out his hand for her to sniff, like had seen Jennifer do before, but the dog flinched back rather than approach him. "Awww. It's okay."

Jennifer leaned down and picked the dog up in her arms, petting it to calm it down. "She's still afraid of you, huh. Are you sure that you didn't do anything?"

"Like I said, she walked in front of me and I tripped on her a little bit, but it's nothing that hasn't happened before, and she didn't seem hurt bad or anything. No limping, no crying… just mad at me." He pitched his voice higher. "Yeah dummy? Did you walk in front of a person and now you're mad at him? Even though he said sorry? Is that it?" I know damn well it isn't, but Jennifer doesn't, and that's how it's gonna stay.

Pumpkin growled back at him from Jennifer's arms. "Yeah? Is that it baby? You know he'd never hurt you on purpose, right?"

Ross did his best to nod solemnly. "Maybe she'll calm down after some quality time with you tonight."

"Oh, I forgot, you have that… what is it, a lodge meeting?" She looked like she was trying not to show her disappointment, her face set in a cute pout. "Are you sure you want to go? And by yourself?"

"More like I have to go by myself, if I want to go, which I do. My friend really likes it, and I'm making some good business connections… anyways, they aren't as gender-exclusive as like the Freemasons or anything, but a lot of the meetings are members-only, and getting to be a member is pretty tough." For one thing, babe, you don't qualify for membership. Be happy about that. "I'm pretty sure they have like family picnics and stuff for bringing significant others to, but I'll have to ask when the next one is."

"Well, I'm fine with you going, but I wish you'd told me about it before last week. It did kind of take me out of left field, you know?"

"Yeah, baby, I know. I don't like keeping secrets from you either. That was one of the things you had to do to get in, though, was not tell anybody, and I had to actually not do it, cause you know I can't lie worth a damn." Reflexively, Ross focused on the movements of his tongue and lips, feeling his inner cheeks tingle, and for a second he heard his voice echo strangely off the walls of the kitchen. Jennifer's eyes glazed over for a second, and even the dog in her arms quieted down.

After a few seconds, she blinked her way back to alertness, and the dog resumed growling. "Oh, believe me. I know." She smiled at him, her face now carefree. "I guess it's not all bad, though. I do get to see you wearing a ridiculous hat."

Ross' eyes fell on the the hat stand by the door, where a red fedora with a gold ribbon around the base was hanging. "Hey, it's not that ridiculous. I'm just a newbie. You should see some of the older guys."

Jennifer stood up. "I'm looking forward to it. I have to get ready, though, or I'll be late for school. You should go too, if you want to get a decent workout in before work."

Finishing the last of his eggs with a few hefty bites (and leaving the pan in the sink for later), Ross grabbed his shoes, his gym bag, his hat, and headed out the door.

Ross liked the early morning drive to the gym. It was still pretty dark when he left the house ( he got up with Jennifer, who worked at a local middle school ) but it didn't really matter, as there wasn't much to look at in March in Chicago to begin with. In the predawn hours, the roads were fairly quiet, which gave Ross plenty of opportunities to get used to the sporty little car that he now drove. With the top up it was just a little cramped ( especially for his huge frame), but it handled well, and Ross had found a 90's radio station that he could sing along to as he made his way downtown. As he drove, he reached into the glove box and pulled out one of the protein bars that he had stashed there - even after four eggs and some toast, he was still a little hungry.

The gym itself was a no-nonsense, industrial-looking affair; a squat concrete building that may once have belonged to an auto body shop. The boulevard it was located on was full of similar establishments, as well as mini-golf courses and the sorts of small offices that cheap lawyers and chiropractors tended to frequent - all in all, the neighborhood screamed 'cheap real estate.' Ross parked and made his way inside, taking a second to breathe in the familiar scent of sweat and spray disinfectant.

"Cliff!" A muscular latin man wearing a 'Rodriguez Gym' T-shirt walked up to Ross. "Looking sharp, man. What's the occasion?"

Ross shrugged and smiled, spreading his hands wide, palms upturned. "Justin, man. What can I say? I figured out it was easier to get dressed at home and change in the locker room then to get all the way here and figure out I forgot my tie."

"That's cool, man. Hey, I don't mean to be a nag, but do you have your membership fee for this month? I let you slide last week, but I gotta run a business here."

"Yeah, I appreciate it. I got a few things straightened out with my bank, you can just put it on my card from now on."

"That's what I like to hear, my man. Come on over to the desk, I'll get you set up." Ross handed him the card, and Justin did a bit of a double take. "Who's this Ross guy?"

Ross smiled, just a little bit smug. "That's me, man. Here, check my license. I just go by Cliff cause my old man is named Ross, too, and I don't feel like being called Junior."

"Seriously? Well, all right. RossCliff." He went to hand back the wallet, then stopped. "Wait, wait, wait. Ross, like Ross's Discount Car Lot?"

"We get you a Car, we save you a Lot. Yup, that's me." Ross shrugged, sheepish. "If it makes you feel any better, I hate that stupid jingle too. The ad agency I hired didn't really consult me before they threw it in… that's kind of the other reason I've been going by Cliff lately. I don't feel like being associated with it."

"You know, if somebody told me that you were the same guy as on TV, I mighta laughed. Now that I see you in a suit, though, I can totally see it. Never woulda guessed. Ha! Wait till I tell the wife. You have a good workout, Cliff."

Shaking his head, Ross took his wallet back from Justin and threw a hand up in a jaunty wave as he headed for the locker room. A few nods and hellos later ("Cliff." "Dave."), a quick trip through the changing room, and Ross was at the weights. As he stacked the weights and began his first rep, for the first time that morning, he finally started to feel comfortable.

Several sets later, Ross noticed a new guy in the gym looking over his way slightly wide-eyed. Ross had just gotten set up for squats, and had been planning on doing just a medium set, so there were only 600 pounds or so up on the bar. Ross looked at the guy, back at the bar, and grinned. Looks like I'm doing a heavy set today. He made sure to pick up the big 25-kilo plates one-handed, and kept adding one at a time until there were 7 on each side. Let's see, there's… 14 * 25, that's… 350 kilos, plus the bar is 370? So, almost 800 pounds. Might need your help on this one, Stone.

Beneath him, the concrete floor whispered back - *Showing off, huh? No charge.* - and Ross felt his muscles bulge with the strength of the earth. He set his shoulders under the bar, took a deep breath, and set his feet.

"No way," he heard someone - probably the new guy - say, not quite under their breath, and then Ross pushed. He felt the bar creak and bend across his back as he made his way to standing, then he slowly squatted again, doing his best to maintain the proper form that Justin had shown him.

Five reps later, Ross gratefully let the bar down onto the supports, and stole a peek in the mirror. More than one of the other people in the gym had reflections that were faintly glimmering with the green of envy, and Ross smiled. He stared at their reflections until the glimmer started to dwindle, feeling the mirrorgreen emotion trickle over his tongue and down his throat in a lime-salt-grassy rush. Straightening, he turned and looked at the room; a few of the younger guys were pretending not to have been watching, but most of the regulars were just grinning, having seen it before. Ross looked at the clock, and sighed. Time to get going, I guess.

On his way out, Ross saw Justin walking towards him. "Man, kids these days. They all want to get muscles to look pretty, so they don't eat enough to put on some serious muscle. Afraid they'll get fat. It's good to have guys like you around, show 'em what real power actually looks like."

Ross smiled, a little embarrassed. "Thanks, man. Coming from you, I appreciate it."

"You bet. Hey, I had a question. Why Cliff?"

"Sorry?"

"I mean, instead of Rob or your middle name or something."

"Oh, that. Football. My teammates said I used to make people stop, like they hit a cliff." And cliffs are where bridges end, but I don't feel like explaining that bit.

"I can believe it. You're built like a brick wall."

Ross looked down at his hands, dusty red from years in Arcadia, and did his best not to shiver. Looking back at Justin's face, he searched it for a second, but saw no sign of duplicity, no hint that Justin might have seen past the illusion on his face to the ogrish skin within. Sometimes people get hints from their subconscious about that sort of stuff… that's probably all it is. "Thanks. Well, I'll see you tomorrow."

Justin nodded and clapped him on his shoulder. "See you tomorrow. Have a good one, man."

"You too."

As Ross stepped out of the gym and into the parking lot, he winced, shielding his eyes against the sunrise. Crap, I'm gonna be late.

Ross rolled in to the dealership's parking lot at 8:57, thanks to some aggressive driving on the way over. He grinned to himself as he pulled into the spot marked Reserved - Manager, just in time. As he got out, he looked at the building with a perverse kind of pride. This is mine now, dumpy-looking office and all. It was a squat, smallish structure; large enough for a couple offices, a receiving room for customers, a break room, and not much else. Immediately through the front doors was the reception desk. As Ross walked in the receptionist, a slightly plump hispanic woman in her early thirties, greeted him with a "Morning, Boss."

"Morning, Maria. Did you get a haircut? It looks nice."

"You tried that line on me last week, flatterer. No, I still haven't gotten it cut, though now I'm starting to think maybe I should. Are you trying to drop a hint?"

"No, no, don't change a thing. It looks fantastic. Sorry, I'll try a tasteful compliment on the blouse tomorrow."

"Like hell you will, tomorrow's my day off. Oh yeah, both green peas showed back up today, they're in the break room with the trainer guy."

"Good, good." Ross lifted the plastic bag that he held in his left hand, revealing several large boxes with the Dunkin' Donuts logo. "Let people know there's donuts in the break room, would you? I'm sitting in on the training again today."

"You got it, Boss."

"Oh hey, donuts!" The voice calling to Ross from down the hall toward the negotiation rooms belonged to a fit man in his late thirties; he wore flashy gold jewelry, greased back his hair and wearing an immaculate white shirt and red power tie. "I was gonna make fun of you for being late, but you are hereby forgiven."

"I'm the boss, Mike. I'm never late." Ross smiled. "You alright with manning the front while I evaluate the training today?"

"Yeah, no problem. More customers for me and the other guys, means more money, money, money. I'll give a holler if I need you for anything." He paused and looked around conspicuously, then leaned in for a stage whisper. "You know you're gonna make that guy nervous as hell, right?"

Ross grinned toothily. "Yeah, I know."

"Heh. Ok, boss. Gimme one of those donuts. I'm gonna go keep an eye on the lot." Ross opened the top box, making sure to select one for himself as well. "Oooh, Boston Creme. Sold!"

Taking the remainder of the box down the hall and into the break room, Ross saw a group of people all standing around the long folding table that took up most of the left half. My own private motley of banal midwestern salesmen, he thought. "All right, guys, let's get this show on the road! I got you guys the fuel you need to stay sharp, stay focused, and sell some cars, so you better not disappoint!" He paused for a second, smiling openly, before once more returning to a toothy grin. "And you better not be hanging around the break room like tits on a bull, either! So collect your donuts on the way out!"

As his employees filed past him (with varying levels of feigned or real enthusiasm on their faces) Ross put a hand out to stop one of the new guys from approaching. "You're not heading out into the lot yet, you're still in training. Green peas can wait their turn." A few of the more experienced salesmen preened slightly as they pushed past the new guy to claim their donut. After the dust settled and the only people left in the room were Ross, the trainer, and the new guys, Ross peeked into the box. One lonely plain, unglazed donut remained.

He showed it to the guy who had approached the line, then the other new guy, and then approached to the trainer. "Want it?"

"No thanks, I had breakfast." The trainer put a hand up politely.

Ross turned and offered it to the other guy, the one who had held back initially.

"I can wait."

The first guy, looking a little peeved at being passed over, accepted the donut with a triumphant "Thank you," sounding almost smug.

"Don't mention it," Ross said, and then he opened the second box. "Besides, gotta keep our blood sugar up, am I right? Important stuff to learn!"

Looking down at his plain donut, the first guy blinked a couple times, then looked back at the box, then at the donut, then at everybody else, who were looking at him with smirks on their face. "Hey…"

Ross burst into uproarious laughter, and the others followed suit. Eventually, the new guy did too, taking a bite of his plain donut with mock relish. "Alright, that's enough clowning around. Now that we've had our coffee and donuts, what do you say we let Mr. Randall here tell us what we're gonna be learning from him."

Put on the spot, Mr. Randall pulled his hand away from the box of donuts, where it looked like he had been about to select one. "Er, ah, right." Taking a second to compose himself, he moved to a spot where all three could see him clearly. Like Ross, but unlike the two new guys, he wore an expensive-looking suit, and his "So! I'm Fred Randall, and I'm here to teach you how to sell cars. I've been in the business for seventeen years, and let me tell you, when I started out, I sucked. But I stuck around, I started checking out the more successful guys on the lot, doing what they did, copying their moves, and all of a sudden I started making money. Lots of money. I'm here today to show you how to do the same thing, and teach you the lessons I learned."

As the morning went on, Ross congratulated himself on a plan well-conceived. It's not like I can straight up ask what I'm missing without looking weird, not as the boss. This way I can learn what I need to know without giving people the chance to realize something's off. He took copious notes, hoping that the act would give the impression of studiousness, rather than ignorance. Mr. Randall was pretty good, too - Ross could tell that having the owner sit in on a training session was unusual for him, but Fred handled the challenge gamely, incorporating Ross into the negotiation role-play scenarios as the 'tower boss' whenever possible.

A couple hours (and a couple donuts) later, the long-haired new guy (his name was James, Ross thought) interrupted in the middle of an explanation of the Four-Square Negotiation System. "Wait, so like… we're lying to the customers. Isn't that like… illegal?"

Ross snorted. "No." He said it derisively, dismissively.

"But - "

"No buts, neither. Listen. Buyers? Are liars." It was something he'd heard Mike Harrison expound upon before. "You would not believe the reasons some people come up with to try to get us to sell. 'Oh, I'm not really interested… thinking about this car at the other dealer… this car I'm using as a trade-in runs just fine… all kinds of crap."

"What, just cause they do it too, that makes it okay?"

"Look, there are no-haggle dealerships out there, right? They got one price they're selling a car for, and the buyer decides to either buy, or not. If you can't hack negotiating, you can try working for the one down the street, even. That's if you don't mind not being able to pay rent, anyways. Stretching the truth on what the fair price of the car is? Hell, that ain't even a lie. The fair price is the one that the customer is willing to pay, and that's a fact." Justin looked unhappy at this, and Ross sighed. "Look, the thing that makes us better than those bozos down the street is this: customers want to be sold on things. Like, when you go to the store, do you buy a generic Cola, or do you buy a Coke?"

James opened his mouth to answer, but Ross steamrolled right past him. "You buy a fucking Coke. And you buy Starbucks, and McDonalds, and all sorts of crap that's probably worth half of what you're paying for it, and you smile while you do it, because that brand name crap makes you happy. That's what we do, here. Somebody walks out of our lot, it's because they know that they are in love with that car. They want it so bad, they'll pay more than they should for it, and because that's the case, we'll damn well charge them for every cent we can get. Because we made them happy, happier than they would've been just owning that car. People like to want things, and the more they want it, the happier they are when they get it. We're performing a service that people want, that people need, and if we're good at it? We get paid our just dues." Irate, Ross spent Glamour freely, letting his voice echo off the dingy walls of the break room. That part of his philosophy wasn't anything he had picked up from Harrison - that was all Spring.

James looked at him blankly for a second, then blinked, a smile growing on his face. "Huh, I wasn't thinking about it like that. I can get behind that idea."

Before the class could resume, Ross felt his pocket buzz. He pulled out his phone and looked at the caller ID, and his heart sank. "Er, sorry. Looks like I've got to take this. Go on and continue without me." Fred nodded, and Ross pushed open the door, then turned and walked right out the back exit. Looking around the lot to make sure that nobody was around, he slid his finger across the screen of the phone. "Hi, Jim."

"Hi, Cliff." The voice on the other end had a slight burr to it, an almost animalistic growl. "I'm calling in one of my markers."

"Yeah, I figured that was gonna be the case," Ross said nervously. "Is it an emergency? Because I'm at work, here."

"Oh, look who's the big man, putting in an honest day's work." Jim mocked, making Ross flush red with frustrated embarrassment. "Well far be it from me to interrupt such an important man at his job. Tell you what. Take your fucking lunch break at 1130, and meet me at the Ithakan. You can buy me lunch for keeping me waiting."

Ross sighed. "Sure, Jim. I'll meet you there at a quarter of -"

Ross was answered by the low electronic beep of a call being hung up. He sighed and ran a hand through the mossy lichen on top of his head, then headed back inside. As he passed the room with the trainer in it, he poked his head in. "Keep up the good work, guys. I'm looking forward to seeing you on the lot this afternoon." With that, he continued on to the front desk.

"Ross' Discount Car Lot, this is Maria. Uh huh. Uh huh. And what kind of car are you looking for? Okay, a four-door sedan? Let me transfer you to an agent. Please hold." She punched a few buttons on the phone, shouted "Sam! Line 4!", then turned and looked at Ross. "How's it going, boss?"

"Not bad. The trainer knows his stuff, that's for sure. Hey, listen, I gotta talk to Mike. You know where he's at?"

"Yeah, Mike's in room 3. I've been passing him calls all morning. What'd you do to get him to man the tower instead of cruising the lot looking for customers? Last time you called in sick and he had to do it, he was sulking around all day because he wasn't getting his commission. This time he's quiet as a mouse!"

"What else? I offered him more money." Ross gave her a wry, what-are-you-gonna-do sort of smile.

"Huh. Well next time you want to take time to supervise training or whatever and need somebody to run the tower, let me know. I can use more money too, you know."

"What? And take you off the front desk? I'm just a manager, anybody can do that. Without you doing what you do, this whole place would fall apart!"

Maria rolled her eyes. "Such a charmer. At least it's a better line than this morning." The the phone next to her rang. As she picked up the headset and punched the call answer button, she gave Ross the little backhanded wave that meant 'you're done, now leave.'

He left. Peeking in at negotiation room 3, he saw Mike sitting at the desk and watching the lot out of the window, two sheets of paper in front of him with notes on deals in progress. Knocking, he opened the door and entered. "How's it look today, Mike?"

"Eh. Slow. We got a coupla mooches tryin' to buy from us at cost, but I think we can work something out. Not a bad day to be gettin' paid by the hour, at least so far."

"I was hoping you'd say that. I just got a call - I gotta go meet somebody for lunch."

"Yeah? Gonna go grab a nooner with the wife?"

"Ha!" Ross barked, surprised. "Yeah, right." He shook his head for a minute, trying to think of everything that would be involved before something like that would happen, but shook his head to clear it when he noticed Mike looking at him quizzically. "Nah, a guy I know did me a favor a little while ago, wants me to meet him downtown."

"Sure, I can cover you. Hey, where you gonna go?"
"Ever hear of the Ithakan? Greasy diner, down on Washington Ave?"

"Yeah, I know it. Seriously? Guy did you a favor, and you wanna go there?"
"Believe it or not, it was his choice. He really likes their wild onion soup."

"Huh. No accounting for taste, I suppose. I was going to ask you to bring me something back, but if it's greasy diner food, I might as well stick with the roach coach." Mike made a face, and Ross privately sympathized. The food truck that came around most afternoons was not particularly appetizing, and that was if you didn't look and see how it was made.

"Tell you what, the Ithakan isn't far from that Jamaican bakery. I'll pick you up some meat pies on the way back."

Mike brightened. "Hey, sure. Haven't had that in a while. Make 'em beef, and grab me some of that coco bread."

"Well, Mr. Harrison, you're a hard bargainer, but I believe we have a deal. Anyways, it didn't sound like it should take much longer than lunch, but I'll call if anything comes up."

"The Ross LaRoux, saying he might be out of the office? You must owe this guy something big."

"Hey, you know me. When I make a deal, I stick to it. You'll call if anything big comes up?"

"You got it, Ross."

With that, Ross escaped to the safety of his office, and sat for a while in front of the desk with his head in his hands. Finally, he let out a deep sigh, and set to getting ready. The brown leather shoes came off, and were replaced by heavy-duty, steel-toed boots. Though it was fast becoming a warm spring day, Ross removed his suit jacket and replaced it with a durable-looking leather coat. As an afterthought, he took off his tie as well, and threw a battered baseball cap on his head. Finally he checked the jacket pockets, and fished out strangely modified brass knuckles - each of the punching tips were capped with polished black metal. Satisfied, he slipped it back into the outside pocket for easy access, then pasted a cheerful smile on his face, and headed past Maria, some bemused-looking customers, and finally out the dealership doors.

Not quite fifteen minutes later, Ross pulled up to a gravel parking lot next to a somewhat battered-looking diner, its retro-styled facade adorned with images of a generic-looking helmeted Greek warrior facing a white-bearded merman that was a not quite blatant ripoff of the dad from Little Mermaid. A sign out front, one of those standing whiteboards, had "Today's Special - Wild Onion Soup!" written on it in faded letters that looked like they hadn't been changed in a while. There weren't many other cars in the lot, but there was one in particular that was in good condition - a black Ford F350 pickup, its rear window adorned with a decal of a snarling boar. Ross gave it a bit of an envious look as he unfolded his heavy frame from behind the wheel of his tiny BMW. He didn't stop to admire it, though - that truck being here meant that Porkbelly Jim was already inside.

The interior of the diner was done entirely in an aquamarine color that would have marked the place as 'retro' had it been freshly painted, but instead just made it look dated. Near the windows, where the sun shined directly on the tables and upholstery, it had faded to a lighter blue, and was throughout the diner marked and mottled by ancient stains and cracks in the leather. For all its age, however, the Ithakan was clean; that, plus the occasional mismatched stool and ancient customer photo tacked to a corkboard, elevated it from 'dive diner' status into the realm of the careworn. This was a neighborhood place, the sort of place that had regulars, a place that didn't bother with advertisements because nobody that hadn't heard of it through word of mouth would ever bother to go. The air smelled like cheap beef and cheap bacon on a stainless-steel griddle, and almost despite himself Ross's mouth watered.

"Cliff! Get your hairy ass over here!"

As Ross turned to look in the direction of the voice, for a second his nose caught the illusory scent of fresh apples and burning leaves. In the corner booth in the back bristled a squat man with a frame that was in some ways a smaller version of Ross's own - muscular, but with a paunch that suggested that it had gone slightly to seed, and of slightly inhuman proportions. Not for the first time, Ross marveled at how it was that noone noticed the monsters among them, no matter whether the monster was a red-skinned Ogre like himself, or a porcine Beast like Jim, with a hoglike snout, curving tusks, and hoof-tipped fingers. "Jim." As Ross walked towards Jim's booth, he took the time to nod at the shark-skinned woman behind the grill, and caught a whiff of deep ocean brine for his trouble. "Mandy." She gave him a sharp-toothed smile.

"Nice to see you," Ross said to Jim as he squeezed his way into the narrow booth.

"No it isn't." Jim smirked. "Believe me, I know. I've had to pay people back on short notice enough times to know that you fucking hate the sight of me, and wish I was anywhere fucking else. But it's nice of you to fucking say otherwise, so, nice to see you too." For all that he talked like a gangster, Jim liked to dress like an academic; his tweed jacket had patches at the elbows, and his boarbristle hair was neatly combed.

Ross sat silently for a minute, then let his shoulders slump slightly in defeat. "What do you need, Jim? You called me here for something, yeah?"

"Yeah. First, I need some fucking food. Then we can talk about that favor you owe me."

"Sure, alright."
A grey-skinned girl, her eyes wide and dark like those of a blind cave-fish, came up with menus and asked for their drink orders. Both men asked for coffee.

As the grey girl was about to leave, Jim raised a finger. "Oh, Rosie? Ask Mandy if we can use the back room, yeah?"

She blinked rapidly, nictating membranes closing sideways over lightless black orbs, and then nodded, almost scurrying away.

"The back… aw hell, Jim, we gotta go there? I like these pants."

"Do I look like I give a flying fuck about your pants? Show some gratitude. I'm only asking because I figured you wouldn't want to be talking about certain things in public. So relax. We don't need to go far, or go out of sight of the door. Just want to have us a talk, private-like."

Ross sighed and picked up the menu, doing his best to look like he was scrutinizing it instead of collecting his jangled nerves. After a few minutes, the waitress came back with two cups and a carafe, setting all three items on the table before pulling out a notepad with practiced ease..

"Do you know what you'd like?" She asked in a thin, breathy voice.

"Gimme three hot dogs, with Chili, Cheese, Onions, Relish, and Mustard." Jim said, "And some fries."

"I'll have the cheeseburger, I guess. With fries. And the Wild Onion Soup. Why not." Ross closed the menu with a sigh and handed it to the girl.

"That's the spirit, Cliff. Show your solidarity." Jim proceeded to pour approximately equal parts coffee and heavy cream into his mug, adding several packets of sugar to top it off. "Speaking of which, word on the street is, you haven't been seen out and about much lately. You too good for us now, or something? Abandoning the community, now that you have a 'real life' to get to?"

"What? Who'd you hear that from?"

Jim shrugged. "Around."

Ross shaked his head as he poured some coffee into his own mug. "I've just been busy, is all. Tell whoever is saying crap like that that I'm just trying to get used to my new situation." He added cream and sugar as well, slightly more modestly than Jim. "Besides, it's not like there's much to do in Winter, event-wise."

"Fuck your events. Spring parties are nothing but chances to drink and fuck." Jim said it without heat, stabbing the air with his stirring spoon for emphasis. "It's shit like this that's actually important. Going to community establishments. Helping their businesses stay afloat. Making sure people haven't disappeared on you."

"Hey, that's not fair. There's all kind of music and art at those events too. And the food and drinks and stuff at those parties all come from one of our businesses, though - I heard somebody talk about it once. Luckily, not from here." Ross rolled his eyes at the thought.

Jim glared at Ross. "Don't be talking shit about the Ithakan. They're the only place around here that does hot dogs right."

"What's to get right? They're hot dogs."

"That's my point is, they're fucking hot dogs. You take beef, and pork, and you mix it up, and you put it in a natural casing, I mean a goddamn pig intestine. That's a fucking hot dog. You don't pussy around with all beef crap." Jim paused. "What?"

"Nothing, nothing. I just… I didn't really expect you to eat pork."

Jim smiled wide, like Ross had given him a response he was waiting for. "Come on. Do I look Jewish?"

Ross laughed nervously, and said "I should have gotten bacon!" There was a pause, and instantly he knew he had made a mistake.

Jim scowled and glared at him, letting the silence draw out, before breaking into a tusk-toothed grin and laughing. "You know what, Cliff? You're all right." He raised his coffee mug to his lips. "Bacon, heh. That's a good one."

There was an awkward silence as Jim sat back and took a sip of his coffee. Finally, Jim spoke up again. "So yeah, all right, sure. The organizers are getting their liquor from Sal. But do you think they're paying fair price? No. They're getting it at the bulk rate, same as Sal would. You think he's making any money off that deal?"

Ross sat uneasily for a second, then shrugged. "I'm sure he's getting something. Maybe not cash, but some things are more important than money."

Jim snorted, a skeptical expression on his porcine face. "Yeah, well, let me tell you. When I want to do Sal a favor, I go to the Oon, and I leave a fucking tip. I don't ask him to do me a favor and then tell him it means he's a respected member of fucking society."

"So does this mean you aren't coming to the coronation?" Ross asked.

"What, with free beer and loose women? Of course I'm coming." Jim grinned, and for a second Ross found himself grinning along with him. Then Jim's nose twitched. "Ah! Food's ready!"

Indeed, after a few seconds, the grey girl came back with a heaping plate of hot dogs and a somewhat smaller burger. Ross did his best not to watch as Jim devoured his meal with every appearance of enjoyment and not overmuch in the way of table manners. Between his nerves, the morning donuts, and the food, Ross wasn't feeling particularly hungry, but somehow by the time the hoglike man in front of him had finished, his burger was gone as well.

Jim stood up abruptly. "All right, then. I'm heading out. Meet me once you pay, yeah?" He didn't wait for a response and walked towards the back of the diner, and the restrooms.

Ross swallowed. "Yeah. Sure."

Ross stood in front of the unmarked door and sighed. The storeroom around him was small, dingy, and absent of any sign of Jim; for a second, Ross had hoped that Jim had decided that the back room was private enough, and that Jim hadn't pressed on and out the back exit. Clearly, that wasn't the case. Ross turned to the door behind him, entertained a brief fantasy of just turning around and going out the way he came, and then slid the deadbolt home to prevent anyone else from coming in. Swearing under his breath, he bent down to tuck his pant hems into his socks, then stood and shrugged on his heavy leather jacket.

Ross took a deep breath, then opened the door. On the other side was a sheet of corrugated aluminum, propped up against the other side of the door in clear violation of Chicago's fire code. "Shit. Waited too long. Guess I gotta open it myself." He shut the door, licked his thumb, and smeared spit across the gap between door and frame, muttering "Open. Says me."

This time when Ross turned the knob, the door opened into a wall of thorns. Brambled vines and briered branches surrounded the frame of the door as if they had grown out of it, hovering on all sides of the portal as if waiting to take a bite out of anyone foolish enough to cross it. Beyond the doorway lay a single dirt pathway, seemingly carved from the tangle by walls of junk and scrap; a twilit green tunnel that seemed to be only a few weeks away from swallowing the sheet aluminum and scrap lumber that braced its sides. Ross put one hand in his pocket, running his thumb against the comforting weight of his knuckleduster, then stepped into the Hedge.

The air was cool, but the wind blowing through the branches smelled of rain, not snow. Ross shivered, and pulled his coat closer to him. A short walk down the thorny tunnel and the sides opened up, revealing an area open to a twilit sky. The clearing centered around a small hollow in the earth where a pool of water had formed, preventing vines from taking root - a pool which curiously smelled like ocean brine. At one corner of the clearing, a rusty hoe was propped against a pile of bags of rock salt. At the other corner were a couple of aluminum folding chairs, and in one of them sat Porkbelly Jim.

"Finally! I thought I was gonna fall asleep out here waiting for you!" Jim said. As if to prove his point, he yawned as he stood, displaying a mouthful of yellow-tusk teeth. "And here I thought you were in a fucking hurry!"

"Yeah, well, I didn't feel like heading into the Hedge with a full bladder." Ross did his best not to shift awkwardly as Jim glowered at him. "So what's the deal? I'm guessing it's nothing legal, or you wouldn't be wasting time and Glamour with all of this crap."

"Can't I just want to have a nice private chat?" Jim put on a mock-innocent face, batting his eyelashes grotesquely, then chuckled. "Yeah, all right. My crew may have acquired some cars through less than entirely legal means. I want you, on your oath, to buy them from me."

Cliff winced. "Jesus, Jim. You want me to buy hot cars? I owe you a medial favor, not my fucking firstborn."

"Excuse me? You want to run that by me again?" Jim growled.

Cliff swallowed. "Look man. I've been a used car dealer for not even a month, yet. And I'm already up to my fucking eyeballs in paperwork. Whenever somebody sells a car, there's taxes, the title changes hands, the VIN gets written down… and it all gets tracked, you know? There might be a way to fudge some of that stuff, sell stuff off the books, but if there is, I don't know it yet. You're basically asking me to get my ass thrown in jail. You know what happens to people like you and me in jail?"

"You're exaggerating." Jim said. He took a cigar out of his coat pocket, and pinched the tip between his thumb and forefinger. Ross winced as the tip of the cigar fell away, the cut from the hoofed nails razor-clean. "You're not exactly the first person I've ever sold a dodgy car to, you know. I've done… maybe a hundred deals like this? And I've heard of people checking on the cars that got stolen exactly twice, and both times my buyer just handed them some phony papers and they came back to him with a slap on the wrist and a fine."

"Papers that I don't know how to fake, Jim. And I'm guessing your usual buyers have employees that don't ask all sorts of questions about where these cars came from. Sell the cars to them!"

"I wouldn't be out here wasting my favor on your sorry ass if I could. I sold them a batch not too long ago, and they don't have the cash to buy from me until they move more product. That's why I need you." Jim paused. "You know what happens if you back out on our deal, right? I did you three solid favors. I put cameras and mikes all over your fucking office. I put cameras and mikes all over your fucking house. And then I trailed your boring-ass doppleganger all over fucking Chicago so you could find him, beat his ass to death, and fucking replace him. Ain't that fucking right, Cliff? Ain't that fucking right, Ross LaRoux?" As Jim pronounced the final words, the vines around them rustled and swayed, even as the air around them went still.

Ross looked around, warily. "I haven't fucking forgot, all right? And if I welsh out, every favor will be poisoned, my colleagues will know me for an impostor, my family will know me for an impostor, and all my enemies will know my every move. I know. So stop screaming my True Name all over the fucking Hedge!" He hissed.

Jim grinned nastily, and lit his cigar. "Right. So quit fucking with me. Just take the cars, forge some fucking papers, and me and my crew won't have to hunt you down to collect our just due."
Ross shook his head. "Listen, Jim. I owe you a lot. And I'm not going to forget it, and I'm not gonna back out on my debt. But I don't owe you this. You did a week of dangerous work for me, and a couple nights of illegal work that cost you some money. This is me risking going to jail and either going crazy or being stuck where my Keeper can get me. Or, if I just try to buy the cars from you directly and them junking them, I'm spending like a year's wages. Or more. It's not equal."

Jim puffed his cigar thoughtfully. "Personally, I kind of think it is, and you're just a fucking pussy. But… I suppose I can see where you're coming from. " He blew smoke into the air at Ross. "Besides, if I can't trust a used car dealer to be honest with me, who can I trust? Am I right?" He grinned, sharklike, a glint in his beady eyes, and Ross tried not to flinch.

"So… so is that it? Listen, I'll definitely make it up to you. Something comes up I can actually do, you need backup in a fight, you need somebody leaned on, you need a friend in Spring, I can do all of those things. You ask me the same favor you just asked me in six months, I might be able to do it then. I just… I got no idea what I'm doing yet. Every night, I'm there hours past close, reading Accounting for Dummies and trying to fill out this week's paperwork the same as last week's, and sweating bullets everytime the DoT asks for form 11A or whatever it is this time. It's almost April, and I'm trying to figure out how to pay fucking taxes. Taxes! I never even got to finish high school, and I'm trying to take back my life from something that got its' MBA while I was being fucking beaten within an inch of my life every day for ten years. I'm barely faking things well enough to keep my head above water. I can't… I can't -"

"Easy there, tiger. I told you I fucking believed you, didn't I? Calm your tits." Jim interrupted Ross's rant, punching the air with the embers of his cigar for emphasis. "You just gave me an idea. You got the cash to buy the cars, right? You just don't know the legal bits? And if you did, you'd be willing."

"Yeah, so?"
"So what if I go talk to my other buyer, get him to do the papers, and set it up so you know exactly how to do it. Then all you gotta do is follow along. Even you can do that, right?"

"... Yeah. If you can do that, then we have a deal." Ross said reluctantly.

"Good answer." Jim hawked noisily, then spit a mass of tobacco-yellowed spit into his palm. "All right. The Hedge as my witness, my word my bond - I hereby exchange a deal made for a favor owed. As long as I get you what you need to buy these cars safely, you agree to buy anything I put to you."

Ross put his hand forward, then stopped. "For the next week only - I'm just buying this batch. And only cars that I can actually sell - I'm not buying every hunk of junk you can dig out of a scrapyard."

"For the next week, sure, but there's a car or two in bad condition that I want to move. You'll buy the junk, but at junk prices. You can sell it for scrap."

"All right, I'll buy junk at junk prices, but I'm only buying what I can afford to buy. It doesn't do you any good to put my business under because I bought half the hot cars in Chicago."

"I hear the goose that laid golden eggs was delicious when they roasted it, but I don't have half the hot cars in Chicago to sell, so it's not an issue. I'm only moving… eight cars, I think."

Ross spat into his hand and reached for Jim's. "Get them and the papers to me this week, and you have a deal. My word my bond, the Hedge my witness."

As their hands clasped, a wind blew through the green around them, filling the air with the clickety-clack of branches rustling against branches and the susurrus of leaves fluttering in the breeze. Looking at the swaying branches, for a second Ross almost thought he could see bits of brick past them, just a flash of clay-red in the corner of his eye.

Ross couldn't help but shiver. "All right. If that's it, then I'm leaving. I gotta get back to work. Especially if I have to get ready for a bunch of new cars."

"Yeah, that's it. Deal's done. I'll call you before I bring 'em over. It'll be tomorrow, probably - day after if I can't get the papers in time. Oh, yeah, and one more thing."

"What?"

"I'm putting myself to a lot of trouble to make this deal go down. We didn't make it official, but I think you owe me a favor."

For a second, Ross wanted to punch Jim straight in his porker mouth, just break his jaw so he couldn't ask for any more of his bullshit favors, choke his fat neck until it fucking snapped and throw him on a fire and roast him for fucking ham. Instead, Ross dug his fingers into the palms of his hands, and kept his mouth shut.

"You're having a drink with me tonight, and I'm not taking no for an answer."

Ross almost stopped in his tracks, feeling a little foolish that he had let himself get so worked up; he managed to give a self-deprecating chuckle in response to Jim's predatory grin. "All right. I'm not swearing to it, but yeah. I'll drink with you."

"Damn right you will."

The rest of Ross's day at work passed in an unpleasant, limping manner. After the confrontation with Jim, Ross was in no mood to deal with the new fish. He did his best to be gracious in 'allowing' Mike to get back onto the lot and taking customers, but the truth was that really Ross just wanted to be alone in his office. For all that the term in the auto sales business was the "Tower", it was really just the corner room of the building in the center of the lot, with big glass windows to let him look out on the lot. From here, Ross could see the salesmen smoking on the curb when business was slow, could see the customers poking through the lot and trying to dodge avaricious salesmen - and he knew they could see him, too.

Ross unlocked the desk drawer, and pulled out a book; though he had purchased it recently, it was already looking well-thumbed through. He surreptitiously adjusted the computer monitors on his desk to hide the surface from anyone looking through the window, and placed the book in the blind spot. Cautiously, he opened "Accounting for Dummies" to the sticky-noted page, and proceeded to try to hunt-and-peck his way through the examples without breaking the cheap plastic keyboard.

By the time the office closed, Ross was exhausted. The paperwork still wasn't done, sales had been shit, and he really just wanted to go home and sleep - except 'home' now was a place where he had to guard himself every minute, pretend to be the thing that had stolen his life. He looked at his watch. Still an hour or two before the coronation, he thought. Well, it's not like I don't know one place where I can actually be myself.

A few minutes later, Ross parked his car outside of the Jackalope Coffee and Tea House. It was a riotous, energetic-looking place, with walls painted bright red and yellow, and bright blue trim on the windows and doors. The walls were liberally festooned with flyers, banners, and artwork; the air was redolent with the smells of coffee and baked goods; the baristas were attractive in a tattooed and pierced sort of way. To Ross, the air that wafted out of the open door tasted like Spring.

"Cliff! Over here!" A sprightly figure waved at him from a corner table where several Changelings had gathered. Like most Wizened, Zarblupt was tiny, barely five feet tall; where Ross had gained the strength and silver tongue of a Troll, Zarblupt had the small stature and the almost chitinous black skin and antennae of a soldier ant, or perhaps a Bug-Eyed Monster straight out of Hollywood. But where Ross was trying to slouch through doors and tailor his suits to avoid suspicion, Zarblupt seemed to be happy to call attention to herself. The thick strands of her antennae-hair had been coaxed into braids and festooned with beads, and her short sleeves showed too-glossy black skin that had been tattooed and scarified with images of flowers and vines. More than anything she looked comfortable as a Changeling, and Ross didn't know whether to envy or admire her for it.

"Zarblupt! Hey!" Ross wound his way over to the corner booth, dodging tables full of other patrons. "What's new? Perry, Lyuba, Carson." He nodded to the other members of Zarblupt's motley in turn; a steel-skinned Elemental, a stripe-haired Darkling, and a Fairest that looked just a little bit too much like a famous fifties' talk show host respectively, right down to the monochrome skin.

"What's new... is what's up!" With an excited grin on her face, Zarblupt put her hands in the air over her head and wiggled her fingers. Ross blinked at her fingers, confused for a second, before he caught the hint and tilted his head back. Above her on the walls of the coffeeshop was an unusual collection of artwork. It seemed to be a series of portraits done in oil on canvas, almost photorealistic in quality, but at some point someone had gone back and intentionally marred each painting's surface. A painting of a young girl had the canvas surrounding her mouth slashed open, then filled with plastic flowers; a weary-looking older gentleman's face had been half-obscured with vines drawn on in neon acrylic. "Check it out. So, curse of the Wizened, right? You can never make anything perfect, there's always a flaw. I decided to take that flaw, amp the heck out of it, and make it beautiful. I'm calling the series Nazarbattu, after Indian flaw talismans, y'know? What do you think?"

"I like it. I like them a lot, actually." There was one in particular, a woman with a Marilyn Monroe-esque beauty mark that had been painted over with a tiny, intricate painting of a rose blossom that caught Ross's eye. "How much you selling them for?"

"Tell you what. I'll give you that one for free if you do me a favor." Zarblupt jerked one thumb over her shoulder at the picture he was admiring. "I could use somebody to watch my back at the Goblin Market next week, and these guys don't feel like going," she said, indicating her motley.

"Really? That's all? Sure, I'd love to help you out!" Ross blinked, flattered at the request and the unexpected semi-gift.

"Cool beans." Zarblupt grinned. "It's a date."

Ross continued to admire the rest of the paintings. ""You know, Zee, you should put the rest of these up in a gallery or something! I mean, not that the Jackalope isn't great, but I bet they'd love it at the Renaissance Society."

Zarblupt's lips twisted into a scowl. "Nah. Those Classicalist bastards won't give me the time of day, never mind artist space."

"Really? I don't understand… I thought they'd be happy to show off art from another person in Spring, even if it isn't quite their usual." Ross gestured with a hand at the wall. "I mean, come on. Your stuff's good."

"It's not cause my stuff isn't good enough for that piece of shit gallery, because it is. It's because I'm part of the Avant Guard." She put out one hand into a fist and received fistbumps from Perry, Lyuba, and Carson. "It's all political bullshit."

Ross scratched his head. "You know, I don't really understand the Avant Guard and Classicalist thing. Isn't everybody part of Spring? It just, it seems a little weird to me that people are like willing to shut each other out over what's basically just a matter of personal preference in music or art or whatever."

Zarblupt nodded in sympathy, saying "You're right. It doesn't really make sense. I'll explain…" she trailed off, then suddenly grinned wickedly, revealing sharp-pointed teeth. "If, that is, you can get her number."

"Um. What?" Ross gaped like a fish, then turned around to see a cute looking college student in a University of Chicago sweatshirt. "Okay, first of all, she's a kid. Second, I'm technically married now. And Third... why?"

Zarblupt snickered, and raised her fingers one at a time as if to mock him. "First, she's hot and legal, so whatever. Secondly, only technically; plus you only have to get her number, not take her to bed. Thirdly, this is Spring business. If you're not Spring enough to get her number, Mr. Prince of the Red Cliffs, then you're not Spring enough to know about it."

Ross sighed. "I'm not going to get out of this, am I?" he asked rhetorically.

"Nope."

With another sigh, Ross turned around. Figuring he might as well get a coffee and a pastry while he was here, he got in line, sneaking peeks at the girl over his shoulder while he waited. He had to agree with Zarblupt - she was hot, though not really his type; one of those pretty brunettes with long straight hair that would have fit right in with the cheerleading squad in high school, or maybe a popular sorority in college. The thought gave him pause for a second, and with it came a familiar fist-clenching wave of resentment. He'd never had the chance to meet a pretty girl in college, never gotten to take a romantic relationship past highschool fumbling and awkward sex in the back of a car. Sure, he had a wife now, but he never got to fall in love with her, never proposed, never stood up on his wedding day.

So why the hell shouldn't he try to get a little bit of that back now?

With that thought in mind and coffee in hand, he licked his thumb and brushed the hair at the peak of his forehead to the side for good luck, then carefully sat on the bench next to his target. She looked up from her homework, startled. "Dostoyevsky, right? I remember reading him. For class, or for pleasure?"

"Uh - for class." she stammered, eyes darting over her shoulder towards the exit.

"Huh. I did Crime and Punishment once too - I don't remember a word of it now, of course. I'm Cliff. Nice to meet you." He gave her a winning grin, and extended a hand towards her. I want her to want me. My desire for hers. Spring, help me. Like an echo, he heard it -*I should charge you, but it's selfish, so I'll allow it *- and his grin broadened as the girl suddenly smiled back just as brightly, one hand shaking his while the other brushed her hair to one side.

"I'm Katie. So, um… you come here often?"

Fifteen minutes later, he was back sitting with Zarblupt and her motley, feeling a little smug every time he noticed Katie peeking over at him. "So? Let's hear it." He gave Zarblupt a cocky grin.

Zarblupt leaned back against Lyuba, the other Changeling absentmindedly running fingers through the braided strands of her antennae, and sighed. "Right. Well, listen up, because I hate explaining this kind of crap, so I'm only gonna do it once. Oh, and before I forget - good job." She paused to give Ross a wink. "What'd you use as the base desire for Growth of the Ivy?"

"Huh? Oh, I took her desire to be left alone while she studied and switched it with a desire for me and to get my number." He shrugged. "Why?"

"Eh, just making sure you're being responsible. Some idiots replace something like the desire to eat, and are surprised when two days later their target is stalking them feverish and half-starved." Zarblupt rolled her eyes at the thought. "So anyways, obviously Classical vs. Avant Garde is about more than just style. The usual story, the one we tell outsiders, is that it's a personal conflict that spiraled out of control, with motleys joining cliques and taking sides."

"Which to be fair, not completely wrong." Carson interjected, smiling winningly. Then again, he always smiles winningly, thought Ross. Zarblupt rolled her eyes and kicked Carson for interrupting, who grabbed her foot in response and brought it up to rest on his lap in order to give it a massage, the action transforming Zarblupt (with Lyuba's help) from a girl sitting in a coffee shop to the pampered queen of all that she surveyed. "The people in charge of the Classicalists and the people leading the Avant Guard do kind of hate each other, and there's certainly people on both sides that are there just because they're friends with one person versus another." As he rubbed Zarblupt's foot, Lyuba bent down and gave Zarblupt a quick kiss, horizontally striped hair falling in a cascade that shrouded their lips from view.

Despite the fact that the affectionate behavior made him a little uncomfortable, Ross stayed put and listened intently. Knowing Zarblupt, getting all PDA like this with her motley in front of him was another test. "And for those in the know?" he asked, doing his best to look confidence-worthy.

Zarblupt kicked Carson's hand away and swung up away from Lyuba to lean in close to Ross, reinforcing his suspicion that she had in fact been trying to make him feel uncomfortable. "The truth is, it's all about money. Well, money, glamour, influence, power… but it all mostly follows the money anyways, so same difference. "

Her tone was hushed and a little gleeful, so he dropped his voice to match hers, feeling a bit like a schoolgirl sharing secrets as he did so. "Go on."

"So, the thing is, if you're in Spring, there's mainly two ways you can make money. Legit? And Not. And what I mean is, if you're doing legitimate business, you're doing stuff like you do with the cars, or baking pies, or selling drinks, or selling art, or acting on stage, the kind of legal above-board stuff that anybody can do, only we can do it better. You get me?" she asked, one pierced eyebrow quirking upwards.

"Sure, I get you. What about people working in like a CVS or a warehouse or whatever, though? That's legit too."

"Yeah, but it ain't Spring. Anybody who has that as their only job doesn't belong in the Court." She smirked. "Anyways, the other way is to do stuff that's less legit. Drugs, theft, stripping, sex, scams. The sort of stuff that's not generally legal and that tends to draw official attention. Now, I guarantee you, all of the old Classic fogies? They all used to hustle." Zarblupt took a sip of coffee to clear her throat, and paused for a second before nodding, as if to confirm what she had already said. "It's a fact. But now that they're established, their hustling days are long gone, and so they're telling the new blood - 'hey, don't do that illegal stuff. Roll over for the Lead Pipes, keep your head down, and enjoy the status quo.'"

"I take it you don't agree?" asked Ross.

Zarblupt met his eyes squarely. "Hey, it's not like I'm some big shot drug dealer either. But people gotta be free, Cliff. If you're new and you don't have a legal identity, your options for survival within the law are damned slim. Sure, the Lords of the Common Trust will find a spot for a new Changeling to work in a Spring-owned business; but it'll be one of their businesses, working to put money in their pockets. A wage slave is still a slave."

Ross sat back and thought about it for a second. Finally, he nodded. "Heavy."

With a sigh, Zarblupt sat back into the booth, the confidential moment broken. "Well, the Classicalists have a point too; all the sketchy shit puts people more at risk of gaining the Others' attention, and nobody wants that. That's why I don't do crap like that anymore. I just think that other people should be free to, if that's what's right for them."

From the other seat next to Lyuba, Perry sat up, his eyes flicking over to the door. "Hey, look, it's John!" Implicit in the warning was the message, 'so shut up about Court business.'

Ross groaned inwardly, then pasted a smile on his face as the Honorable John Smith Esquire walked up. As usual, John was dressed like a lawyer - white shirt, dark suit, dark vest, red power tie, red pocket protector - but the masculine clothes he wore did absolutely nothing to distract from his beautiful heart-shaped face, and the curve of his hips and the bulge of his breasts were apparent despite the vest he wore and the binding he wore beneath it. The white flowers growing out of his hair and the naturally carmine color of his lips were of absolutely no assistance in clarifying matters.

John was a militant member of the Summer Court, who swore that before his abduction into Faerie he had been biologically male, and who insisted on being treated as such. "What's up guys? Grabbing some caffeine before the Arduous Ascendancy?"

As John sat down next to him the scent of jasmine and sandalwood tickled Ross's nose, making his head swim for a second. Ross tipped back his coffee cup for another sip to try and replace the scent with something less titillating. "Yup. How've you been?"

"Not bad, not bad. Hey, since you're going to the ceremony, you mind keeping me company? I don't really have anybody to go with."

"Uhh…" Ross's mind blanked as John looked straight at him with big, green eyes. "Sure, I guess?"

"Sweet! Oh hey, I'm gonna go get my drink. See you in a second!"

As John walked away, Ross shook his head to clear it. Damn it. Why do I fall for that shit every time?

After he left Zarblupt raised an eyebrow at Ross. "Didn't figure you to have a friend in the Red Rampants."

Ross shifted uncomfortably. "Ah, yeah. We traded favors a little while back. He's a little intense, but he's not too bad."

"I've spoken with him before… he's one of the Summer Court's recruiters, you know. He was feeling me out about joining up. You're right about him being pretty decent for a Red, but you might want to be careful about how friendly you get with him, if you don't want people to think that you're unhappy in Spring."

"I'll keep it in mind."

Carson stood up. "Zee, we should probably get going if we want to be on time for the Ascendancy."

Zarblupt sat up straight. "Good call, Cee, good call. Ross? Always a pleasure… oh, before I forget!" She pushed her chair over to the wall, then used it to boost herself high enough to take down the painting that Ross had coveted. "I'll give you a call later in the week, set up a time to go. Sound good?"

"Yeah, that's fine." Ross stood up as well, just as John returned with his coffee. "John, I'm gonna head over to the coronation."

John gave him an easy smile. "I kind of figured. That's why I got mine to go. You don't mind if I drink it in the car, right?"

"Uh… no, that's fine." Ross stammered. Knew it couldn't be that easy to get rid of him.

The Wild Onions Charter House was deep in the Wicker Park neighborhood of Chicago. Originally a Polish neighborhood, the inhabitants were displaced in the 70's by newer immigrants from Puerto Rico, then displaced again by newer immigrants still - the wealthy and gentrified, who were in the market for a neighborhood with cheap housing that was convenient to downtown. On the edge of the actual park itself, the Wild Onions Charter House stood out against the backdrop of the gentrified and revitalized neighborhood, a ramshackle mansion that nevertheless exuded an aura of comfort and hospitality.

Tonight it was hopping with activity. Car after car pulled up to the front gates, disgorging creature after creature. Ross had had to drive over with the window open to counteract the sweet smell of John's beflowered hair, and so was grateful when he finally had the excuse to get out of the car, breathe some fresh air, and throw his keys to a wax-masked valet. Turning, he saw a rattletrap taxi pull up behind him, and smiled at the familiar face. He walked over to the window and bent down. "Agnes! You're working tonight?"

From inside, a hag-faced woman made a face at him and rolled her window down. Over the sound of the radio playing the Clash, she said "Of course I'm fecking working, how the hell else d'ya think all the tossers who can't drive and don't trust mortal drivers are gonna get to the bloody coronation? Me 'n Orf've both been running around like chickens with our heads cut off all night!"

"Makes sense," Ross said. "Thanks for all your help on Spring's behalf. You gonna be able to come in and have a drink?"

"Yeh, I'm about done for the night. Anybody else can either call a mortal cab, or fecking walk. I got one more pickup to do, though, so if you'll excuse me - " With that, Agnes rolled up her window and drove off, narrowly avoiding clipping a pallid, spiderlike humanoid in a white suit.

"Cliff, you coming? I want to get good seats!" John called.

Ross grunted in acknowledgement and headed towards the doors of the Charter House, adjusting his gold-ribboned red hat more squarely on his head. Looking around, he could see people from Spring - otherwise known as "The Mayday Union of Free and Common Princes" - that he recognized, most wearing at least something that related to crowns; while a few wore tiaras or headbands or bandannas, others stuck with more subtle ties or cufflinks or belt buckles. Similarly, most members of Summer - "The Second True And August Court of Iron Will" - bore something of iron, the few attendees from Winter - "The Pallid Court" - tended to wear veils or funereal garb, and Autumn courtiers - of "The Dread And Awful Court Of The Yellowed Leaves" - brought something related to leaves or books. Porkbelly Jim, Ross noticed with a half-admiring glare, had decided that tobacco leaves counted and was using the excuse to chomp on the end of a cigar.

While the technical start time was 7 PM, the general poorly-organized nature of Changelings was such that the actual ceremony didn't start until after half-past. It'd probably have been longer, except that dinner wasn't being served until after, and nobody wanted to be responsible for keeping the Ogres hungry. Ross was busily chatting with John and a Hawaiian Ogre named Maki when the trumpets finally rang out and the herald cried, "All rise for the Dukes and Judges of the Alraune Table!"

First came the Dignities - the four Counts and Countesses chosen by the Alraune Table for notable efforts or services in the year prior. In theory, these positions were supposed to keep the common man of the Courts invested in its' success and be rotated frequently among its members, but in practice the same familiar faces seemed to show up time and time again. The position was non-voting, but frequently people who had been awarded Dignities by the Table in years' past showed up on the ballot when it was time to elect the Graces.

Following them were the Graces, the holders of more permanent positions, voted on every Election Day by those Changelings who felt politically motivated to attend. Dukes and Duchesses of Hospitality, Lore, Treasures, and Valor, the seats were normally filled by members of Winter, Fall, Spring, and Summer respectively, but every so often one member or another was successfully challenged by someone from another Court. Since Ross was pretty new to town, he didn't recognize most of them except for the Duchess of Treasures - otherwise known as Lady Beltane, Princess of the Torchwood and Lady of the City Beautiful - who served double duty as one of the bigwigs in the Spring Court when she wasn't at the Alraune Table.

Next came the Judge of Oaths and the Judge of the Charter. They, If anyone, could be said to be the Changelings that truly led the Alraune Table. Elections for the position were held only once every ten years, and required the Judge to renounce all Court allegiances in order to judge matters fairly. Ross had met the Judges of Oaths and the Charter when he swore allegiance to the freehold - they were an imposing Darkling with coal-black skin and a gnarled old Wizened with coke-bottle glasses respectively - but didn't really know them by anything but their reputation.

The Judge of the Charter climbed the small step-stool that had been left for him in front of the podium and brought a gavel down on its surface. "The Viceroy of Summer!" He shouted. From somewhere, a drum struck up a military cadence. Out from the wings walked a jackal-faced figure in a fool's cap, one finger firmly up his nose. The crowd roared with laughter as the Duke of Prudence and Secrets - otherwise known as the Vice of Folly - strutted in a goosestepping march over to the Viceroy of Summer's chair. Rolling his eyes, the Judge of the Charter rapped the gavel again, and this time when he called for the Viceroy of Summer he was met by a powerful-looking Ogre in Hedgespun armor that gleamed as though it were under the midday sun. Accompanied by the clarion call of a trumpet, the Ogre unceremoniously picked the Fool up off his chair one-handed and tossed him to the side, where he sat cross-legged in a sulking pout.

Following the Viceroy of Summer was the Viceroy of Autumn, a Fairest with a cruel smirk on his face and a hobgoblin hound trailing faithfully at his side. His entrance music was cymbals and oboes, a fearful racket - one that died completely as the Judge called for the Majestic Monarch in Mourning, the Winter King. It was a figure completely shrouded in an ivory veil - a man? A woman? Tall? Short? No-one knew, for legend had it that the veil the Monarch in Mourning wore was a gift that Winter herself had bestowed upon Snowflake John. Some said that the Monarch even used a body double for public appearances, trusting to the magics of the veil to sustain the deception.

Finally, the Judge called for "The Heir Apparent, the Crown Princess of Spring, Odile!" There was a clatter of music, played on pots and pans as though they were steel drums, and out into view stepped Odile, a delightfully beautiful Fairest - who just so happened to be an eleven year old girl.

Next to Ross, John leaned down and whispered in his ear. "What the fuck?"

Ross shot John a glare. "Show some respect!"

"No, seriously. You're putting a little kid in charge of the entire fucking freehold? I'd heard the rumor, but..." From the sounds of it, it seemed that John wasn't the only one muttering - Ross only hoped that the sound of the music would be loud enough to keep it from the stage.

He elbowed John in the gut, carefully so as not to bowl him over and cause even more of a commotion. "She's the compromise candidate. Troop's going to be the one really in charge."

"Who?" John asked, but Ross didn't have time to answer, as the music was dying down. He didn't need to, however, as the person in question was the next to be announced.

"In honor of the Spring season, we recognize the Grand Lord of the Trust of the Union of Free and Common Princes, Sir George Troop!" The figure that took the stage was a giant gorilla of a man, silver-haired but still strong; he had a booming, stentorian voice that droned on, and on, and on about the joy that being a part of such august company brought him, and the circumstances that brought him to this point today, and the amusing anecdotes that seeing Crown Princess Odile brought to mind…

Meanwhile, Ross and John continued a whispered discussion. "Seriously? You couldn't have picked, like, anyone else?"

"Look, Odile's perfect for Spring. Everybody loves her, everybody understands that she's going to take 'advice' from Troop, and that way people with political opinions don't have to get mad because somebody from the other side got picked." Ross scowled at John, trying to get him to settle down, but John was undismayed.

"I can't believe that you lot are fighting over art! I mean seriously. Why's the Classical vs. Avant Garde thing so important?" John asked.

Ross remembered Zarblupt's advice about Spring secrets just in time. "We're Spring. We like drama," he lied. "Now shush!"

Troop's speech wound down, and the audience breathed a sigh of relief as he finally announced the 'Arte de Triomph'. There was an expectant hush as a mocha-skinned woman took the stage, her hair bright blue and beaded with blue feathers, and a few people whispered her name in excitement. "Bluebird's singing tonight!"

"I was never spellbound by a starry sky; what is there to moonglow, when love has passed you by..." Her voice was rich and full to begin with; even without Fae magic she was already a talented singer. However, something her Keeper had done to her in Arcadia had amplified and distorted her voice so that eerie birdlike overtones could be heard over her husky contralto, making it sound like she was singing a duet with herself. Combined with the effortless splendour that Glamour granted the Fairest, it was the sort of virtuoso performance that was completely beyond a mortal throat.

And then the backup band kicked in. "At last… my love has come along," Once he figured out just which song it was, the part of Ross's brain that hadn't just been melted into jelly by the music wanted to wince in dismay. From the Spring meetings that he had been to, he knew that the Arte de Triomph was picked by the previous Spring Monarch, in this case a Fairest Muse whose torrid affair with the Duke of Valor had been public enough that both the Classical and Avant Garde candidates had managed to persuade their constituencies not to support her for a second term. The piece was perfect from a political standpoint: classical enough to appeal to the right, modern enough to mollify the left, and originally recorded by Etta James at Chess Records, right here in Chicago.

It was also searingly, achingly sultry; a glorification of Spring and the element of desire. It was completely and utterly unsuited for the prepubescent Odile. When the piece finished, the crowd of changelings - Ross included - erupted with applause, some leaping to their feet, others rising more slowly after taking the time to adjust their pants. George Troop banged the Judge's gavel on the podium calling for order, but it was official - Odile's show had been thoroughly stolen.

The actual coronation wound up becoming almost more of an afterthought. The Monarch in Mourning knelt before Odile, presenting her a seed, then the Judge of the Charter held the crown over the Crown Princesses head while the Judge of Oaths walked her through the oaths of office. When the crown finally touched her brow, it - and the seed she held - erupted into brilliant white flowers. The applause that this received was distinctly more perfunctory.

Ross sighed as, the ceremony now concluded, her Ardent Majesty Queen Odile led the members of the Alraune Table out of the room, the music of the recessional punctuated in places by the hiss of opening cans of beer and the mutter of conversation. Then he shrugged. Oh well. Sucks to be her. Time to party!

Since he still had to drive home, Ross avoided the fuming and sparkling spirits being served at a table next to the punch bowl, and decided to stick with a beer from Haymarket. Sure, the brewery/pub was an Autumn establishment, but for a good Belgian-style beer Ross was happy to make an exception and reach across the equinox. For the food, on the other hand, Ross was more willing to experiment with the stranger fare - among other things, he quite enjoyed the goblinfruit-jelly glazed ham, the moonthistle-herbed potatoes, the hedgewood-smoked cheeses, and the blood-candied yams. He almost decided to sample a rack of lamb that smelled like nutmeg, chocolate, and peppermint, but the odd sensation of bloodlust and half-remembered terror that the smell gave him made him decide to give it a pass.

Several drinks (one with a cheerfully inebriated Porkbelly Jim), a second overflowing plate of food, a half-dozen conversations, yet another plate of food, and an awkward dance with a Wizened that came up to his belly-button later, Ross was stuffed and thoroughly enjoying himself.

And then he heard the scream.

When he turned to look, a wide space was rapidly forming around a slight feminine figure with milky-white eyes. "He's coming! The Keeper! Upon a glass horse, through the Citadel of Roads to the Towers of Wind! He's coming!" After that portentous announcement, she slumped to the ground. Members of Summer and Fall rushed to her prone form, and immediately the room erupted into a hubbub of whispers.

Ross saw John standing alone not far from him, and sidled over. "So… what do you think? Is she for real?"

John shrugged as if he didn't care, but his hands were compulsively cracking their knuckles as he spoke. "I give it… thirty percent chance that she's crazy and hallucinating, thirty percent chance she's crazy and did it for the attention, and thirty percent chance someone paid her to do it so it'd fuck up the party."

"Thirty thirty thirty, huh?" Ross said after doing some quick math.

A fey light crept into John's eyes, and a wild smile tugged at the side of his cheeks. "You never know, right? So. Are you staying?" One of John's hands crept to the inner pocket of his suit, stroking what Ross was sure was a concealed weapon almost reverently.

"You know what? I think maybe I'm going to head home," Ross said. "Enjoy the party." He hurried out of the building, following other Changelings who were slipping away in ones and threes. The valet was already grabbing someone else's car, so Ross just leaned down and took his keys back from the valet stand. A short walk later, and he was in the car, out of the garage and into the streets, checking his rear view mirror frequently and listening for hoofbeats.

A few miles later, just as Ross was starting to calm down, it started to rain. The sound of it startled him, and he fumbled at the console for a second before managing to find the windshield wipers. When his visibility cleared, his heart sank. He was driving over a bridge. The rain fell quicker, and Ross started to hyperventilate as he started seeing flashes of silver mixed in with the water, smearing like mercury in rivulets down his windshield. "It's not real. It's not real. Deep breath. In, out. Just having a panic attack. Okay, find your center. Hold on to something iron." His hand reached convulsively into his pocket, wrapping around the iron-shod brass knuckles. "Try to get a distraction. Music. There's nothing remotely like hearing a song, whenever you find that your life is all wrong. Shit, no rhyming. Fuck!" He punched the console in a panic, brass knuckles still in his clenched fist.

"Sometimes I feel like I don't have a partner

Sometimes I feel like my only friend

Is the city I live in, the city Lochenburg

Happy as I am, well I'll never cry…"

Ross panicked, swore, and hit the accelerator.

A few minutes later, he came back to himself. His car was pulled over onto the side of the road, his hazards on. He looked in the mirror, and saw the silver tracks of dried tears clinging to his face, but he was okay. No blood on his hands or his lips, still in the formal wear - though now sticky with fear-sweat - and the rain hammering on his car was just rain. He checked the road, then got out to check the outside of his car. He hadn't hit anything or anyone, either. No blood on the bumper, no gouges in the paint. He stood there in the rain for a few minutes, letting the cold water cool his head, reminding himself with every drop that it was just water, not the hellish acid that had seared him from the inside out until his stomach got strong enough to take it. Once he finally felt calm, he got back in the car and slowly drove home.

By the time he got back, Jennifer was already in bed. She murmured faintly as he crawled in beside her. The soft light of the bathroom night-light cast a quiet glow on her face, and in it he could see the faint tracks of tears. Had she cried herself to sleep? She was wearing some pretty racy lingerie, had she hoped that he would come home early enough to start something? He looked at her lying there, innocent and beautiful, and thought about waking her. And then his stomach growled, and he realized that he was drooling. Hurriedly he turned over, shut his eyes, and concentrated on going to bed hungry.