Warnings: graphic depictions of violence, referenced rape/non-con, and major character death.

"You wouldn't believe it," Guy said around a mouthful of cornflakes. "'M stuck guarding some stupid employee check-in place off in Tuscana."

Matthew looked up over the paper, watching him shovel cereal in his mouth.

"Tuscana? Isn't that a little close to Araphen?"

Guy made a face. Despite dressing in sensible slacks and a button-down shirt, like most working-class blokes, no one could mistake him for Lycian. With his slanted eyes and stick-straight hair, he wore his Sacaen heritage like a neon sign around his neck. Even though one of the consuls was half-Sacaen, the common people still had no love for their people. Most Sacaens that dared live in inner-city Lycia worked odd jobs where they didn't have to interact with the hoi polloi, Guy Kitsai included.

"I can take care of myself. I've been carrying my gun, too!" he replied. "Job sucks anyway. Eight straight hours of standing in front of a door and telling people to show me their IDs."

"How is that your job? Aren't you a PI?"

"Yeah," Guy muttered, lifting the bowl to his lips and drinking. "'Cept since that Tania divorce case a fortnight back, there've been no people in the market for a bloke like me, so…Had to do something. Got to have gold if I want to eat, eh?"

"Yeah, I got you. How's the rest of the office doing?"

"Not good. Eubans said we're gonna be facing some cutbacks. I might get laid off, like my cousin—you remember him? Rath? Anyway, he says Caelin's consul is lookin' for bodyguards, so maybe he'll sign on with her…"

Matthew shot him a withering look.

"Hey, I didn't say I would! But, y'know, she's one of us, right? So it wouldn't be too bad…"

"Sure. Same jerk-offs that fired you from the police for 'budget cuts' want you licking their boots now," Matthew said with a snort of derision. "If you ask me, there's no winning with 'em."

Guy shrugged as he took the paper. He took forever to go through the pages even on a good day—he hadn't even learned to read Etrurian until secondary school—but he always liked to hear about the latest crimes and arrests. His foolhardy dream to be the best detective in the city spurred him to spend his time off investigating things and generally getting in the way of the real police. Usually, it didn't bother Matthew, but he had already seen the front-page article and could only pray Guy had too much to do to worry about it.

From the way Guy's eyes widened and an excited crooked grin overtook his face, Matthew knew he had no such luck.

"Hey, Matthew! Did you see this? Some Black Fang guys made off with the chief of police!" he shouted, cramming the newspaper under Matthew's nose. "Look!"

"Yeah, I read the paper too, you know."

"It could be my big break! Ooh, if I could get my hands on that Angel of Death, I'd-"

"You'd die, you idiot," Matthew snapped.

"I would not! I'm a damn good shot! I could take him!" he insisted. Matthew sighed; a dragon could land in the middle of the city and Guy would be the first one out there, waving his gun and shouting challenges. He was like a kindergartener's macaroni-art collage of exuberance and chutzpah, sloppy and in constant danger of falling apart. Old fights had broken his nose thrice over and left it a crooked mess, and when Guy smiled widely enough, Matthew could just barely see the gap where he'd lost a premolar.

"Sure. The most dangerous thug in the whole damn city and you want to walk up to his front door and challenge him to a duel. He'd probably take you out as soon as you turned your back to him. That's how life works. Still sound brilliant to you?"

"Yes," Guy muttered sullenly.

"Have fun with that, then. I've got work to do," he sighed, throwing up his hands.

"I wouldn't have to fight him, though. I could find Harken. Then everyone would have to pay attention to me!"

Matthew froze, hand hovering over the doorknob.

"How're you going to pay rent if you're wandering around looking for some police bloke?"

"I wouldn't have to quit my job! I could work nights or something. C'mon, Matthew! I'm never gonna be the best detective working security!"

"Why're you asking me for permission? I'm not your mother. If you're determined to get yourself killed, I can't stop you. I just want you to think about whether this is smart."

For once in your life. Even as he shut the door behind him and jogged down the rusted staircase, he knew Guy wouldn't be able to pass up an opportunity that big. Guy lived for that kind of noble, foolhardy shit. He thanked the fact that Guy made a poor investigator. He'd only gotten as far as he had through sheer determination, much the same as anything he'd achieved in his sorry life. In all likelihood, he would flail pitifully at the problem until someone else solved it, and then he would be forced to give up. He would sulk and moan about it for a few days, but then he'd hear about some new outrage or another and he'd catapult himself into the thick of things with the same gusto as ever.

His fears assuaged, Matthew wrestled with the front door of his car and threw himself into the seat. He had to make a trip uptown, to the Etrurian district; a friend from his schooldays knew a bit about everything and it would certainly be worth the time to see if he had any advice. Of course, it would mean putting up with some of the ridiculous laws that only Etrurians cared about, like parking in certain places and actually yielding at intersections, but he would endure it for the sake of his mission.

No sign marked the change from Lycia to Etruria, nor did the familiar sooty cityscape simply fall apart. Rather, old architecture began to crop up, scaffolded stonework and eroded frescoes interspersed with the more modern brick-and-iron high-rises. The main streets were still paved in cobblestones, although decades of driving had chewed up the stonework in some areas, and the gothic gargoyles perched on some roofs were splattered with pigeon poop. The Eliminean churches that infrequently occupied Lycian streetsides tripled in number, their gabled roofs and simple wooden exteriors sharing space with streetside cafés and some of the only still-operating libraries Matthew had ever seen.

Despite its tarnished pride, people walked the streets without watching their backs at every turn. Etruria had the usual assortment of the homeless and the hungover squatting in its alleyways, but unlike Araphen or Laus, they were distinguishable from the regular citizens. Etruria's small police force at least made the effort to keep their district safe, and they were not stretched as thin as the freelance Ilians or the exhausted Lycian force. Accustomed to the rough-and-tumble streets of his own district, Matthew fidgeted as he parked in a restaurant's empty lot. No one noticed as he took to the sidewalk rather than actually walking in.

Several of the artsy cafés and and jewelry stores had darkened fronts, the windows boarded up. Matthew only passed one bread line on the way to his destination, though, and he wondered if Etruria really was doing better than Lycia or if they just did a better job of hiding their poverty. He glanced down at the scrap of paper he'd scribbled an address on: 17 Aureola Street, Flat #275.

He still almost walked past the building—it looked more like a governmental office than an apartment, what with the private parking lot and the general cleanliness of the building. As he trudged up the staircase, he zipped up his jacket to hide the Ostian football shirt he wore. His friend had always been finicky about appearances.

Matthew knocked on the door, muttering "one hippopotamus, two hippopotamus," under his breath as he counted off the seconds. It took half a minute before any sounds came from inside the building, and another fifteen seconds before the door swung open. A short, androgynous young man with thick glasses glared up at him.

"Matthew. What are you doing here?"

"Long time no see, Erk. Just in the neighborhood, and I thought I'd stop by to see my old pal."

"Yes, I imagine the classmate I haven't seen since graduation just happened to stop by. Let me rephrase: what do you want?"

"All right, all right, I've been found out. Don't be mad. I just need a few moments of your time. How about you let me in?"

Erk's brows lowered a fraction more, but he didn't slam the door in Matthew's face.

"I have studying to do," Erk muttered, yet he turned and walked back into the flat, leaving the door open. The fact that he hadn't invited Matthew in set off warning alarms in his head; he had always joked that Erk would serve tea and dance through highbrow etiquette for fifteen minutes before a bully could get around to dunking his head in the toilet. Matthew hadn't seen him in years, though, and maybe Erk had changed more than he or Guy had.

He followed Erk in anyway, glancing around at the little room. It had about enough floor space to park a pair of cars side by side in the living room alone, and he didn't see any signs of another person sharing it. Other than a cumbersome bookshelf, an armchair, and a desk with a typewriter upon it, the little flat looked unlived in. Matthew briefly considered kicking off his shoes by the door, but he didn't want to invite himself in any more than he already had, so he settled for leaning against the wall.

"So, you're in university now, huh?" he began.

"Yes, it's quite the workload, but you know what the demand is like for a degree."

"You always did take your education pretty seriously."

Erk peered at him over those wire-rimmed glasses, the sort that had gone out of style twenty years prior, and arched an eyebrow with wordless cynicism.

"Right, right. More seriously than I did."

"Matthew, the cat that lived behind the kitchen dumpster took her education more seriously than you did," he said dryly.

Matthew swallowed a sarcastic retort and settled for a stiff smile. Erk had always had a stick up his ass, even in their schooldays, so it was better to err on the side of caution and butter him up like a breakfast scone.

"Hey, I graduated, and it wasn't like I was going to university anyway, you know? We can't all be geniuses."

"I'm quite flattered, really, and I could argue semantics on the technical definition of genius, but I do happen to be short on time. You caught me an hour before class and I still need to brush up on symbolism in Hartmut's Saga before lecture."

"Look, I'll cut to the chase. You wouldn't happen to have heard about the police chief who went missing?"

"Yes, I listen to the news. What of it?"

"Well, Guy's still working private investigating. You remember Guy, right?"

"How could I not? You two put the only bad mark on my permanent record that I ever got, if you recall."

Matthew grimaced—he most certainly did recall, thank you very much. His mother had given him quite the punishment over that particular fiasco. For once in his life, it honestly hadn't been his fault, any more than it was Erk's. They had both stepped in to try to pull Guy out of a scuffle with a swaggering idiot of a fourth-year who called himself Beast or Glass or something equally dumb. Professors tended to turn a blind eye to the ubiquitous fights, but a rickety old desk finally gave way when the fourth-year shoved Erk back into it, and before anyone could blink, the headmaster had caned and suspended all of them. It hadn't really affected him or Guy, as they both missed their fair share of class, but it had to have devastated Erk.

"I'm really sorry about that," he muttered with a good bit more chagrin than he actually felt. "You know Guy and I would've taken your punishment for you, since it was our fault and all."

"Yes, yes, it's all behind us," Erk said, mouth a tight, disapproving line.

"Really sorry. Honest. But, well, Guy has started investigating this whole police mess, and I figured I'd lend a hand. Seemed like a decent sort of thing to do. Even I'm not so good that I can solve a case myself, though."

"So you thought I'd know something? Matthew, use your brain. The closest I've been to crime scene investigating is the evening news."

"And no one would ever presume otherwise, rest assured," he muttered. Raising his voice, he said, "I know you used to read a lot of those forensic science books and stuff, though, so I thought you might be able to offer a spot of advice. Where does a bloke start without proper police resources?"

"You do realize that vigilantes can be arrested for impeding justice, right?"

"Huh? Really?"

"If you stick your nose in police business, you could very easily find yourself enjoying a nice stay in prison. That goes for you, and if Guy hasn't been assigned the case, that goes for him, too. Please do the safe thing and keep your heads down and your mouths shut," he sighed.

"Don't be such a bore! When have I ever done the safe thing?"

"I'll concede that one. If you're dead set on getting yourself arrested, then, I can tell you that the police have a standard procedure in the face of ransom, or, to be more accurate, they have absolutely none. All Lycian police must sign a no-hostage clause to join the force. This is both theoretical and presuming the procedure hasn't changed in the last five years, though," Erk amended with a shrug.

"So you're saying there's no point trying to find out about a ransom demand?"

"There might have been one, but if you have limited resources and limited time? I would focus it elsewhere. Theoretically, of course."

"Theoretically, yeah. Nice and theoretical."

Erk heaved a long-suffering sigh and massaged his temples.

"I'll pretend for your sake that it will stay that way. I really do have to skim over my reading material, as much as I would like to continue this line of discussion," he said. Matthew inwardly congratulated him on only letting a hint of sarcasm show through in his words. "Do give Guy my regards."

"Yeah, I will. Maybe he'll drop in once he's done with this case."

"I'm sure that would be positively charming."

"Great. Thanks for the help, by the way. Have fun with class."

"It was no trouble at all. I trust you can see yourself out?"

"Yeah, sure. I'm off!"

Matthew waved over his shoulder and headed out the door. His footsteps didn't produce tinny echoes on the stairs, unlike they did on the ones leading up to his own flat. He wondered how much more Erk paid a month for the building. Likely more than he and Guy could afford, Matthew mused. Erk's parents owned a small fortune, the lucky bastards, and the one time Matthew had eaten dinner at their palatial house, he had felt shabby and poor. At least Erk's college flat looked reasonably modest. Sucking up to him was bad enough without standing in the middle of a condo.

At least he had picked up quality information from the visit. He hadn't thought that the police would take kindly to his investigations, but he hadn't known they could actually jail him for it. Just another reason why he couldn't trust the council's dogs. They gave fair trial in the same manner that wild mongrels did, and the prisons had a nasty reputation for "losing" their occupants. The few Fang blokes who had done time returned with fleas, scabies, and influenza, and they considered themselves damn lucky for it. For the most part, though, the Black Fang operated well enough that no one ever really got caught, and certainly the high-ranking members didn't fear jail.

A shiver wriggled up Matthew's spine. The police frightened him badly enough with just their corruption. Jail scared him shitless. He had seen a few arrests in his life, seen the policemen pound down someone's door and swarm into their flat like soldier ants, seizing a clumsy killer or a stupid dealer or someone who sort of matched a Fang member's wanted poster and got turned in by a greedy neighbor. The worst he'd seen had lived a few doors down from his mother's old flat, a broad-shouldered Bernese woman who fought like a twelve car pile-up when they came for her, an ugly mess of shouts and frantic sloppy punches until they beat her down with nightsticks. The thought of the cops dragging him to the back of a car like that, bloodied and shouting, shriveled his courage and left him sitting motionless in his taxi, white-knuckled hands gripping the steering wheel. He could end up there if he crossed paths with the police, like he would if he tripped up in finding Commissioner Griflet.

He resolutely slammed his foot on the pedal and burned rubber out of Etruria. Legault had given him a chance to chicken out and pass the job off onto someone used to doing dangerous work. If he wanted a bigger part in Fang work, if he wanted to put the fucked-up government in its place, if he wanted a lion's share of the profits, then he couldn't let a little childish worrying paralyze him. Legault had been breaking the law since he was old enough to shoplift food, and the police didn't even know his nickname, let alone anything else. If Matthew played his cards right, he could fit in the same safe niche.

It took a while to drive to Badon. The rush of people heading to work cluttered the streets so terribly that even a storm of curses and insults couldn't clear the way. Per usual, he could barely pass the bridge spanning the river that cleaved Lycia in two. Eventually, though, Matthew squeezed through like a cork popping out of a bottle, ending up squarely in the port of Badon.

He located the crime scene all too easily; the cops advertised their presence with loud shouts to stay back and an abundance of Warhorses, the boxy, white-wheeled cars that even a fool knew belonged exclusively to the police. Unable to get close in his clunky taxi, Matthew uneasily searched for somewhere to park. He didn't want to leave his vehicle out of sight in a place like Badon. It belonged to the Fang, but he had neglected to learn the location of which shops belonged to them and provided safe haven. Instead, he'd have to park as close to the cops as he could without arousing suspicion and pray that someone didn't smash in the windows and hotwire the cab.

Matthew settled on leaving his car in front of a bar called Grima's Grog. After a moment's thought, he hung his Fang dog tags off the rearview mirror, advertising to any would-be thieves exactly whom they messed with. His left hand on the flick knife in his pocket, he forced a slow casual gait as he made his way down the sidewalk, walking beside an enormous stevedore with a bandanna tied around his head. He wouldn't pass as a member of the man's crew to even the most unobservant, but he might pass for his mate. At the very least, he wouldn't look like a pickpocket that would have to be questioned.

The sailor glanced askance at him, but he said nothing, perhaps rightfully assuming that he could tear Matthew in half like a parking ticket. They walked together for three blocks, but the dock worker headed off well before Matthew reached the organized chaos of the crime scene. It was mostly all cops, their purple uniforms blending together and wiping out all individuality. Two men in civilian clothes huddled in the middle, though, well beyond the yellow tape that read "CAUTION: DO NOT PASS" in black letters.

Matthew nearly ran into a man the size of a lorry, an impossibly heavy ballistics jacket covering him like a knight's breastplate. The officer stared imperiously down at him.

"Please back up, sir. This is a crime scene," the man said. Looking at his bad sideburns and the ugly scar on his face, Matthew couldn't believe that anyone would assign him to deal with people. His mug would scare off even the fiercest woman.

"Those guys are beyond the tape," Matthew whined, pitching his voice a little higher than usual. With any luck, he would be mistaken for someone younger, and therefore more likely to be underestimated.

The policeman didn't even turn to look at the people behind him.

"They have council permission. If you're just here to gawk, sir, please step back," he patiently replied with the bored tone of one who had been repeating the same thing all morning.

Matthew obliged, not wanting to draw attention to himself by arguing. Curious as to who would have special permission to poke around, he stood on his tiptoes to try and get a better look.

A shock of hair as red as a police car's lights immediately drew his attention. The frail-looking man didn't seem much older than Guy, but his double-breasted suit looked like it cost more than most made in a month, and he, like many wealthy citizens as of late, wore a sleek little pistol at his side. His polar opposite stood at his side, a hulking bear of a man in a coat the size of a tent, a mean-looking shotgun gripped carelessly in one hand. They seemed terribly familiar to Matthew, but he couldn't for the life of him recall where he'd seen them. School, maybe? Passengers in his cab? Neither seemed particularly likely—the two looked richer than bandit kings and most certainly had their own cars, and maybe even drivers. They were probably sons of business owners or governmental workers.

Matthew froze, wilting as he realized who they were. He'd seen their faces in the paper or on the telly often enough that he felt stupid for not having immediately recognized them. Hector Penn, brother of the chief consul, had a reputation for causing mayhem. He had no real power, but he and his friend had the sort of connections that made an aspiring politician salivate. The friend had to be Eliwood Lyonell, son of Pherae's consul, an idealistic justice-monger without any street smarts at all. They had the law on their side, and any of the innumerable police present would jump to do their bidding, including the homely cop who watched Matthew with an unsavory look on his face.

He edged a little closer, trying not to push the cop's patience but desperately wanting to eavesdrop.

"…bullets found…c'mon, Eliwood…Fang…"

He cursed under his breath, wishing he could hear better. Over the jabber of voices, nosy Lycians and working police alike, he could barely make out what the two said. Given that neither had police training, it likely wouldn't be too useful, but Eliwood might parrot facts the police knew…

"…cut and dry…death is down…commission Ilian…them out…Harken…"

Grinding his teeth, Matthew turned and walked away. The snippets of dialogue he heard made little sense—only the part about blaming the Black Fang registered as anything other than disjointed nonsense. Sighing, he paced farther down the police perimeter, trying to get a good look at the reconstruction of the fight. Unfortunately, the steady Elibe drizzle had washed away the blood, and while he could see the white outline of where the officer had fallen, no other visible markers indicated where anyone else stood. Jaffar could have shot from almost anywhere, meaning that without a witness testimony, he wouldn't get anywhere. Jaffar was likely in no condition to talk, Harken was missing, and one of the officers on patrol was dead. Only one other person had seen the events that occurred.

"Fat lot of good that does you," Matthew muttered to himself. Barring a kidnapping of his own, there was no way for him to get a testimony out of a police officer. As much as the thought tempted him, the danger outweighed any possible gains. Continuing his current line of investigation would likely suit him better, fruitless though it felt.

He glanced down at his watch, wondering how much of the day he had wasted hurrying around town on his wild goose chase. The clock only read "12:05," to his surprise. He wouldn't even have to pick up Raven from outside The Lion and Owl for another two hours. His stomach grumbled. Matthew hadn't had a thing to eat since toast at six. Casting another regretful look at the inaccessible crime scene, he left to go fetch his cab and grab a bite.

A half hour's time found him seated at an outdoor café named Nabata Sunrise. The wooden sign had a blue dragon silhouetted against a vibrant desert dawn. The café's sandwiches were cheap—they would have to be for anyone in that part of town to buy them—but good enough for Matthew's liking.

A piercingly loud voice interrupted his meal.

"It can't be Matthew!"

He winced, bad memories of second-year rising to mind, and wondered if he'd be ignored if he stayed silent.

No such luck. A girl with a long white dress and pink hair done up in pigtails took the seat across from him, grinning like a wolf that had stumbled across a helpless rabbit.

"Oh, wow! I can't believe it's you! I haven't seen you since Election Day!" Serra chirped.

"Yeah, well, can you blame me?"

He could almost hear the whistling noise as his sarcasm flew over her head.

"I could very easily, you know, but I'm sure some tragic affliction must have prevented you from returning to me."

"…I guess you could say that," Matthew muttered, knowing the futility of arguing with Serra. He had made the mistake of assuming that her good looks would mitigate the nonstop stream of words that poured from her mouth, and so he had asked her on a date. It didn't exactly go well. To be honest, she wasn't actually that bad, but her sharp chatter grated on his nerves on the best of days. She clearly hadn't changed a lick in five years.

"Well, it's not like I would've had time for you anyway. No offense, Matthew, but you're a simple sort and you just wouldn't have fit in with my important friends."

"Who're you claiming to know this time?" he asked. "Did your rich parents finally show up, or is it the chief consul now?"

She scowled, crossing her arms.

"Are you laughing at me? I should have you know that you're absolutely heartless. And wrong! I do know the consul's brother, I tell you. I was his secretary," she sniffed.

"Was?"

"Yes. You don't have to be mean about it. Why, it must have been my beauty that drove him to seek another secretary. He couldn't work if he was distracted all day, you know."

Matthew barked a short laugh. Her brows lowered dangerously and she said, "I'm sure you're not doing any better. A guy like you doesn't offer much to an employer."

He nearly pointed out that the cab across the street was his, but the thought of his failure in the Black Fang rose to mind instead. They provided him his ticket out of a mediocre existence, so shouldn't he consider it to be his real job?

"I suppose I've been found out. I hate to admit it, but I haven't exactly faced what you'd call smashing success."

"It's a sad state we're in if people like us are tossed by the wayside," she agreed, completely oblivious to the fact that she had directly contradicted her prior statement.

"Blimey, so you haven't picked up anything since?"

"Well, not exactly…The point is, someone will come crawling back soon! I put in applications!"

Matthew rolled his eyes again. It figured Serra wouldn't just fess up and admit that she was unemployed with no hope of that changing. Her fool pride topped even Guy's. She was probably living much as he did—splitting rent with one or two other people, hitting up the soup kitchens on months when coin was short.

"Mind, I won't work some menial job," she continued, blissfully unaware that he hadn't been listening. "Or anything with weird hours, either. I'm a frail girl! I need work that isn't too hard or hot or stressful!"

"Speak for yourself. Work's work, even if you don't like it. A bloke's gotta put food on the table somehow."

"Don't you dare act all condescending, mister! I'm sure you'd kill for an easy answer, too!"

"Well, yeah, but—"

He froze, Serra's inane statements planting an idea in his head. Of course! With the job market abysmal and most struggling just to cover the basics, she was right to say that someone would take drastic measures just for a little cash. If Harken's kidnapper intended to hold him ransom, they could stand to lift themselves out of shitty blue-collar work. Even if a rival gang hadn't hacked up the commissioner and hurled the body into the harbor, someone might still have a solid motive for kidnapping...

"But?" Serra asked.

"But that'd be against the law," he finished lamely, keeping his thoughts to himself. It would be worth looking into later, once he'd rid himself of the obnoxious girl across from him. He couldn't full well go dashing off on some quest, anyway; increasing the number of suspects only made his job all the more challenging. Besides, Erk had already said that he wouldn't have the ability to really look into any ransom demands.

"Hmph, after Hector's cruel treatment of me, it would serve him right," Serra huffed.

He forced a laugh, making a big show of checking his watch.

"Well, it was…nice…seeing you again, but I've really got to go. My best customer's waiting on me."

"I thought you said you were unemployed!"

"Sorry, no, I didn't. I'm unsuccessful, not a total bum. Good luck finding work, though!" he said cheerfully.

"Matthew, you deceitful—Hey!" she wailed after him.

He pretended not to hear her, considering himself safe when the rusty bulk of his car shielded him from view. Luckily, Serra didn't follow him. She probably considered it "undignified" to chase after any man. Shaking his head at the ridiculousness of the circumstances that brought him to run into two old mates in the same day, he keyed the ignition and tore out of the there. After all, he hadn't lied—Raven would need him soon enough that rushing off to Caelin made sense.

Matthew arrived with scant minutes to spare, heaving a sigh of relief. He didn't want to face the consequences of angering someone as touchy as Raven. Per usual, the redhead flicked his cigarette butt on the street, opened the door, and settled onto the seat.

"Long day?" Matthew asked.

"Not today. Ryerde won, like I said. Looks like they're shaping up to be good contenders for the playoffs. You're out of luck, though."

"Eh? What do you mean?"

"You like the Ostia Stalwarts, right? Their season has been terrible. They lost to the Ilian Pegasi. The Pegasi."

"Oh, shut up. Araphen's team isn't much better."

"I follow the Caelin Hawks," he said with a shrug. "Though they've been shit for years."

"Funny. Why does an Araphenian follow a crappy team from another district?"

Matthew didn't even have to look in the rearview mirror to know that Raven was scowling.

"Can you just drive?"

"No need to get huffy. It was just a question."

"Fair enough," Raven said, but he didn't keep up with his usual small talk.

Matthew sighed.

"I really don't care about prying into your business. There's too much shit going on to make me waste my time."

"Probably for the best here. Only way to stay out of trouble is keeping your head down and your mouth shut," Raven grumbled.

"Tell me about it. Look the wrong way at a bloke and he'll either knife you or try to get a police reward out of you. No need to worry about me, though! My customers are basically sacred."

Raven chuckled quietly.

"If they weren't, they'd just find someone else, but the sentiment's good, I guess."

With that, Raven slapped a few coins on the center console and slipped out the door. Even after a solid month of driving the bloke around, Matthew still didn't know what to think of him. He paid well, though, and that made up for his perpetual foul mood. As he had said to Serra, he would talk any paying job, no matter what sort of crazies one had to deal with. That was why, even with his Fang assignment, he found himself lazily driving through the streets of Pherae. With the police crawling over Badon like maggots over rotting meat, business would royally suck until it cleared up.

Still, he drove home early, hoping to catch the tail end of the evening news—his car's radio was busted, and he wanted to hear any updates on the Griflet case. Traffic kept him so gridlocked, though, that he stumbled up the stairs and in the door well past six. Despite his lateness, he still managed to catch Guy before he left.

"Hey there!" he greeted as he shut the door behind him. "How's your investigating going? Find out anything good?"

"I thought you said I was being dumb," Guy said, brow furrowing in consternation.

"Just wanted to make sure you weren't going to charge headfirst into Black Fang turf and shout a fair and honorable challenge at them," he assured. It bothered him to lie, especially given the fact that Guy never did; it was some Sacaen tradition that he refused to drop, even when many had abandoned the old ways as the city changed. Matthew couldn't very well tell the truth if he wanted to pick any information out of his friend's findings, though.

"Oh. Well—Hey! I'm not that foolish! They'd shoot me before I could even move. You've taught me better."

Matthew grinned.

"Good to hear. So, how'd your day go again?" he asked, taking a seat at the kitchen table.

"Didn't get much done—boss actually refused to let me change hours," Guy said. "Still, I stopped in to see one of my coworkers from Eubans's. He works with the police now, so I thought maybe he'd share something with me, you know?"

"And?"

"Heath wouldn't tell me anything. I knew he couldn't, but I figured maybe just a little…"

Matthew forced a smile to hide his disappointment. He had hoped that the case would fall neatly into his lap, the pieces assembled easily from a bit of amateur poking around and cribbed shamelessly from Guy. Then again, he reflected, Legault wouldn't have assigned the job to him if he could solve it that easily.

"Cheer up. Heath probably didn't have much to share, anyway."

"I guess so," Guy said doubtfully. He had likely harbored the same delusions of finding the commissioner before lunchtime. "What about you? Did you hear anything from one of your passengers?"

"No, I'm afraid not. Only that Pherae's consul's son was butting in on the crime scene."

"Not surprising! He used to stop in the station every now and then, y'know? He and Harken were pretty close."

"And even seeing how the police work, Harken still fired the only one of them doing anything?"

"Hey, calm down! I wasn't doin' much there anyway, and I've gotten a lot better workin' for Eubans, honest. I'm sorry I haven't been making as much since, if that's the problem," Guy said, emotion drawing out his accent. "But I promise, once I've solved this Harken thing, I'll be set for life! Really!"

"You haven't been working for Eubans that long. What if he cans you alongside your cousin?"

"Well, yeah, that'd be pretty bad," he said, subdued. "But until Harken's found—"

"Yeah, yeah, don't worry. I'm not. If I got upset over every government fuck-up, my life would be miserable," Matthew said, borrowing Raven's earlier sentiment.

"I wonder how Miss Watson is taking it."

"Who?"

"Harken's fiancée, Isadora. She was always real nice to me, even when I messed things up. You'd really like her. She was a bit like Erk's mom."

"Yeah?" Matthew asked distractedly. Maybe this Miss Watson could help him out. She'd know if Harken had anyone who would want rid of him, besides just the poor Lycians who would rather knife a cop than help him. It would provide a better lead than just loitering around the crime scene, in any case.

"I mean, Miss Reglay used to braid my hair, and it sure was better'n doing it myself, but Miss Watson helped me with learning the station duties. Taught me some stuff on the firing range, too."

Matthew nodded absently. Frowning, Guy pulled his gun out, setting it on the table between them. It was police-caliber and looked like it had come fresh off the production line, unlike the secondhand 9mm Matthew had. His eyebrows rose to his hairline.

"Pulling steel on me, now? What gives?"

"I told you, Miss Watson was awful nice to me, see? She got me it when I got sacked. Said she didn't want me to get hurt looking for work," Guy replied. "She didn't do the same when Oscar quit."

"Guess she just took a liking to you."

"I think it's 'cause she didn't worry about Oscar," he said. His expression was serious. "I wish she didn't have to worry about me, either. That's why…That's why if this case goes badly, I think I'm gonna meet up with Rath and work with…with the consul of Caelin."

"Guy, what happened?" he asked.

"Nothing. I was just thinking."

Given Guy's brutal honesty, Matthew accepted his words without pressing. It served as a good reminder that however rough and ruthless Elibe seemed to him, it treated Guy doubly worse. That Isadora had spent her own money to keep him safe raised her a notch in Matthew's esteem.

"How're you going to be the best detective in the city if you quit? Did you give up your dream that easily?"

"No! I could get hired back on by the police. I'll keep working the rest of my life if I have to, but I'll do it!"

"Yeah? What makes you think they'd rehire a former employee?"

"Consul Lyn could—"

"I thought we discussed it this morning. Isn't she as bad as the rest?"

"Maybe," he reluctantly agreed. "But after the Taliver gang slaugh…slaughtered two hundred unarmed Lorca p-people…"

His voice shook so badly that he couldn't continue, hands balled into fists at his sides. Elibe had scarcely known a worse massacre than the Lorca killings. The Taliver had burned the slums to the ground, hacking up the Sacaens that tried to slip out. Nearly the entirety of the Lorca people had been wiped out in one horrible night, but many of the Taliver still went unpunished. Despite being born in the Kutolah slums, Guy—like most Sacaens—claimed kinship with any that shared his heritage. It didn't surprise Matthew that the murders still made him tremble. Hell, Matthew himself couldn't help but shiver at the thought.

"…Even if she can't fix the economy or nothin', she survived that, so I think she'd try to fix things for people like me. So even if you're mad that I'd work for the government, Matthew, I'll still do it. Wouldn't make much money to help Mum, but might make her proud anyway."

"I see...Then good luck! If you're set on doing something, I'm not gonna stop you. Just don't do anything reckless, all right?"

"All right. It won't matter anyway, really. I'm going to solve this case!"

He didn't have the heart to crush Guy's dreams, and so Matthew said, "You'll knock 'em dead. Anyway, I've got to go—promised I'd meet some friends for a pint, and I only came back here to pick up my hat anyway."

In truth, he wanted to hit the rec room and see what his fellow Fang members could tell him. He would have to keep it cool, as Legault suggested, but he'd be a fool to spurn their aid. Smiling blandly at Guy, he whisked his hat off the countertop, waved jauntily, and left. The cabbie didn't expect many people to hang out, as Fang dealings went off most often during the evenings, but it would help him more than listening to Guy yammer on about the council.

A few familiar faces pleasantly surprised him. Lloyd and Aion, a greasy-haired man with a weasely sort of face, played billiards with a third man, who stood with his back to Matthew.

"Seeing you two days in a row, huh?" Lloyd said with a grin. "Don't you have anything better to do, kid?"

"I could say the same to you," he countered. The smile slipped off his face as the third man turned to look at him.

He looked perfectly average, with untidy brown hair and fierce, dark eyes, his face pinched as if he were tired from a usual workday. His reputation spoke volumes for him, though: Jerme, the Death Kite, known for unmatched brutality. His yellowed teeth flashed in a grimace of a smile. The only redeeming trait Death Kite had was the fact that Nergal kept him hooded and jessed, only rarely allowing him to leave the glove and sink his talons into prey.

"Mind if I join?" Matthew asked with feigned nonchalance. He could deal with Jerme's presence.

"As soon as we start next game," Aion said, sinking the ten ball into the corner pocket.

"What brings you out here?" Lloyd asked.

"Eh, just trying to get away from my flatmate. He keeps going on about how the Black Fang had something to do with that police chief disappearing. Bloody annoying, if you ask me."

Lloyd's arm jerked, sending the cue ball ricocheting wildly off of the sides.

"Who gave him that idea?"

"The news, of course," Aion answered for him. "Half the channels are slandering us 24/7, and the other half are quick to jump on the bandwagon whenever anything happens."

"What exactly happened? I'm afraid I'm a bit fuzzy on the details. Been working all day, y'know, so I missed the shows," Matthew lied, grabbing a pool cue off the rack.

"It isn't our place to question things. No one knows the details," Lloyd said, although Matthew knew that he didn't tell the whole truth. He wished he could get Lloyd alone for a good chat, but he would need to wait a while.

"That's not true."

The three turned to look at Jerme, his nasal voice cutting into their conversation.

"Yeah?" Matthew asked.

"Jaffar—" he said the name like one would say "syphilis""—was there. Assuming that no-talent cretin watched what was going on, he could tell you."

He grinned unpleasantly.

"That is, if he hadn't been shot, he could've. He couldn't even kill a newborn kitten right now. Instead, he's lounging around the safe house, while the rest of us are doing the real work."

"Oh, I don't know. I wouldn't say Jaffar's the only one spending most of his time on his back," Aion laughed.

"What do you mean?" Matthew asked.

Lloyd jerked his thumb towards the couch. A woman Matthew hadn't noticed before lay on her side, her pale face worn. As he craned his neck to get a better look, she sluggishly lifted her head. Short hair the color of spilled wine only served to accentuate her excessive pallor, and her overlarge eyes seemed to strip him of his secrets. He looked away first. There was something not wholly normal about her, and from the others' casual avoidance, Matthew presumed it was important.

"Who's she?"

"Ephidel's new mistress. I almost pity the girl," Lloyd said.

"So she's not one of us?" he asked warily.

"An initiate, actually," she answered. Her words held a certain calm pride that almost made him doubt Lloyd. She could be dangerous. "I've been here for two months."

Matthew uneasily looked to Lloyd for answers. He had that effect on people. They trusted his leadership, and he, in turn, took care his pack. Small wonder he had chosen White Wolf as his title.

"Aye. In the Fang for two months. Only with Ephidel for a day or two."

Matthew's gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before he turned back to the others. He didn't need to concern himself with Ephidel's latest whore.

"So, none of you know anything about that cop?"

"For Elimine's sake, Matthew, if you're that damn curious, go pester Hurricane. I'm sure he'd just love to chat with you," Aion snapped.

"Ah, good point! I doubt he's got anything better to do, anyway," he said. With a wave, he turned and walked out. Driving the length of Lycia thrice over on his moronic quest had worn him out, and he wanted Legault to just fess up that he had concocted the whole thing as a joke. Legault could have his laugh, Matthew could get on with his life, and the case could fall back into the police's lap. Neat and tidy.

As he drove to The Full Moon, he wondered how he'd been thick enough to actually believe Legault. A whole day's worth of investigation with no better lead than a tentative connection to one Isadora Watson only served to back up his irritation.

He stormed through the doors of the pub, wearing his sullen mood like the chief consul's best furs. A quick glance around the room revealed no sign of Legault, however. If he wanted to make a joke of things, he clearly intended to see how long Matthew would continue to buy it. His absence, though, made Matthew wonder if he actually did have good intentions. Maybe he'd even meant the whole thing.

"Greetings, Jan!" Matthew began, leaning against the counter. "Have you seen Hurricane around?"

"Not since yesterday," he replied. "I'll tell him you're looking for him, if you want?"

"That'd be nice. Tell him it's important, would you?"

"Of course. What kind of business are you on today?"

Matthew shook his head.

"Oh, it's nothing much. I just have a message to pass on. Doing Hurricane's legwork, as usual."

"You can write it down and leave it here for him. Seal it, if you want," Jan said.

Not a bad idea, he thought, and if he had more information, he just might. For the time being, he waved Jan off, sinking tiredly into a barstool. Maybe Legault really meant for him to do the whole thing on his own. Matthew doubted it, though. His mentor had always taken a hands-on approach towards him, acting as lookout or accomplice for most of Matthew's petty crimes. It wasn't like Legault to duck out all of the sudden. Still, he was frequently busy, and more likely than not, he was poking around in someone else's business.

Resigning himself to Legault's absence, Matthew ordered a pint of bitter light beer and settled in for the evening.