His Grace Commander Sir Samuel Vimes started his day as always he did, by declaring determined war on the stubble brave enough to attempt an overnight invasion on his face. It had always been one of Willikins' dearest wishes that his master would one day allow him to shave his face for him, but Vimes had seen too much of what his butler could do with a knife to allow that.

He finished shaving, washed, kissed his wife, and then, as it were, started on a trip towards home. Vimes had never considered the mansion where he usually slept and occasionally ate as a home; rather as that place he slept. Home was where the heart is, and Sam Vimes' heart was most definitely incased in the stone walls of the Watchouse.

It was unnaturally cold outside, in the six o'clock twilight of the day. Sam was used to the cold, he had been working with the night watch for most of his life, and had seen winters which would make barbarian invaders close the yurt flap and turn up the heaters. Or whatever it was barbarian invaders did when they were cold.

And down a dark alleyway, something sniffed, or did as close as it could to sniffing, at the air.

Frost glazed the windows, and the flagstones on the road slipped out from Vimes' feet. It really was freezing out here, and Vimes could have sworn he heard something, so he stopped for a moment and lit one of his foul-smelling cigarettes, the ones he couldn't stand but said 'Police Chief' in larger-than-life letters, and was at least warm. Maybe he should just head back home…

The something saw its moment. Larger than a house, larger than a country, it bounded down the alleyway. It couldn't think, couldn't see, couldn't hear or sense, but something inside it pulled it irresistably toward the man in the smog cloud.

Vimes finished with the lighter and set off without looking forward, always an inadvisable move in the icy cold. He bumped into something soft and yielding, which fell over with a yelp. Vimes stooped to help him.

"Um… sorry, wasn't looking… bloody slippery flagstones… freezing cold…" mumbled Vimes as he helped the man to his feet.

The thing pounced.

Vimes fell to the ground.

And now it was eleven o'clock, in the warm watchouse which smelled of coffee and sanitiser and the unfortunate aroma of cell toilets. As in any situation where policemen were involved, chaos and histeria were taking over. Cops ran around hysterically, trying to accomplish their orders, or, failing that, to find someone to receive orders from. A desk had been cleared of its usual clutter to make room for Vimes, who still had not risen since the fall. Constable Igor and an elderly doctor potted around the body, arguing over the cause as doctors always do when they are in the same room as another doctor.

There were only two prisoners in this morning; Corporal Nobby Nobbs, who had been locked up for attempting to rob the comatosed commander, and an unfortunate spiky haired youth, who was feeling very sorry for himself, not least because he was sharing a cell with Nobby, a man whose body odour was considered an illegal torture device in a city ruled by Lord Vetinari. The little man's eyes scanned the youth's hair, his pimple-spotted face, and his unusual clothes, which apparently were designed by someone who ate the wrong kind of mushroom. Nobby's brain arrived at one conclusion.

."You a student, then?" he asked suspiciously.

"Um, yes," replied the youth. "Well, exchange student, really. I'm studying at the Unseen University,"

"What'd you do to Vimes?"

"Um, The man who fell down?" asked the youth. Nobby nodded. "Nothing. I have no idea what happened. One minute he was, uh, helping me up, the next he was on the ground."
"Uh huh," replied Nobby. "Whatever you say. Hey, just saying, if you did knock him out, you wouldn't be able to give me a few pointers on, say, how you did it? Looks like a nifty trick to have."

"I didn't do it!"

"Right, right, whatever you say." They sat in silence for a while. "I liked Vimes," mused Nobby. "Understood how a man's mind worked." He tapped the side of his greasy helmet with a muted ting. How does the man do it? Thought the youth. That helmet was clean when he got it off the wall, I saw him. Now it could be used to fry chips. In the privacy of his own head, the youth considered throwing the water pitcher over him, but realised the water would probably stick. He poured himself a glass of water, and became aware of another presence in front of the cell. A presence which blotted out a lot of the light coming from outside.

"Captain Carrot wants to have a word with both of you," said Sergeant Colon as he fumbled with the keys. "And Nobby, I ain't going to make any accusations, but if I was you I'd give him his pen back. I've never seen him like this before."