Copper Dawn

Commander Vimes (he of so many titles that Sally wondered if he didn't have some vampire in him) arrived shortly after dawn looking like he'd narrowly escaped a harrowing amount of wifely concern. His first order was to send a patrol over to Isle of Gods to investigate a disturbance he'd heard about near Broadway. Also, just because they happened to be in the area, perhaps they should stop by All Jolson's restaurant to pick up an assortment of breakfast stuffs to bring back to the yard? But – and here he leaned down very close to make himself understood - nothing with fiber. Clear? Absolutely no fiber.

After that came the simple morning rituals of accepting a mug of tea and collecting reports from the eternally dutiful Carrot. He paused before heading to his office.

"Any progress on finding the thorn in Downey's backside?" Vimes hated reading reports. Everyone knew the paperwork just sat on his desk until he could arrange a convenient accident with either tea or candles. The papers got most of their use as weapons for combatting black flies.

He was old fashioned and preferred to gather as much information as possible from verbal review but these days the answer was almost always the same. As now:

"That would be the 8th report, sir." Carrot patiently explained, nodding to the pages that were already getting rolled into the baton feared amongst all things insectoid.

"Oh? Ah." Vimes unrolled the papers and flipped through to Sally's report, "Teppic? Little bastard, I should've known it was him. Right, fetch him up to my office. We need to have a chat. You alright, Humpeding?" this final comment was elicited by Sally's knee colliding with the underside of her desk at tremendous speed. To her credit (and unswerving reputation for grace and dignity at all times) the vampire didn't even bat an eye, despite her knuckles going white as she willed away the shattering pain.

"Fine, sir. I simply realized I still had the keys to the lockup so I thought I could save Captain Carrot the trip." She moved towards the cell stairs as quickly as she could and still technically be seen as 'sauntering.' The cumulative effect was one of confusingly attractive digestive distress.

"In one piece, if you please. You and the prisoner," Vimes advised, almost turning to his office again, "Oh, and find the boy's file for me, will you? It's got to be longer than the line outside the Skunk Club on payday."

"Really, sir? I would've thought Teppic's record would be longer than that," Carrot frowned, "They're quite efficient at seating people, you know. I once saw them serving snacks on the chandeliers."

Vimes, frustrated and impressed by his home city's spirit of entrepreneurship (a Quirmian word meaning "enter if you have enough gold to buy a ship") found his brain paralyzed by the thought of Carrot entering an establishment like the Skunk Club. The worst part was that he probably had been by on many innocent occasions and knew most of the performers by their first names. Hells, he probably had dreadfully earnest conversations with them about their favorite aunties' health and mum's recipe for slumpie.

"I have that file here, sir." Sally backtracked to her desk and scooped up the papers on her desk. She handed it over before quickly disappearing down to the cells.

"Always on the ball, that one." Carrot commented loyally in the silence.

"Yes. But I sometimes wonder for what game." Vimes nodded absently. An offending black fly caught his attention and was summarily squashed with the massive criminal file before he resumed his trek to responsibility.

Teppic, dreaming once again of eternal sunrises and seagulls felt like he was just on the cusp of understanding something important in the plaintive birdsong. He'd had the same dream for years now, ever since his father's death. The priests of the Old Kingdom would undoubtedly have been quick to find mystic meaning and symbolisms; probably all sorts of metaphors for freedom, survival, hope and the like. Deep down, he was far more convinced that if the former king/seagull could talk it would be something to the effect of: where's the best bits of rotting fish this side?

The hyper-intelligent gaze of the reincarnated seagull king riveted on Teppic, swooping close and blowing the hair from his face with the beat of its wings. He instinctively leaned closer, hoping that he might finally hear his father's voice again. The small beak opened, becoming larger than the sky.

"Did you know you drool in your sleep?" the teasing voice was far from what he'd expected but could still be considered divine in its own right. Fully awake in that instant, Teppic allowed his expression to give away nothing save a small smile. He could clearly envision the owner of the voice (possibly because he'd meditated heavily upon her before falling to sleep). She'd be standing before the bars of the cell, a posture of casual duty shrouded in highborn disinterest.

"I can't control what I do in my sleep, obviously." He answered lazily but listened intently for the slight noise of a uniform shifting with movement. She would lean towards the bars now.

"Obviously." She agreed. She was willing to play the game, waiting for him to continue.

"Nor could I control what you do in my sleep," he rose in a fluid movement that gracefully uncoiled his entire frame and had him at the bars of the cell in a split second, "But I could give you some creative ideas."

He'd half expected her to back away at his sudden movement, or at least blink at the suggestion. Possibly even reach through and punch him for impudence? There hadn't been even the flutter of an eyelash. She merely wrapped one hand around a bar, near his own, and leaned closer. The faint curl of a smile revealed a glint of fang which did something very strange indeed to his heart rate. Two primal survival instincts had suddenly decided to go to war within him.

"You'd have to be creative indeed. To survive," the low rumble of her tone was artfully poised between threat and seduction which lingered in the air for several seconds before she leaned back and revoked her spell, "The Commander is ready to see you."

Teppic, wishing to cling a little longer to the mood that she'd so professionally shattered, stepped through the opened gate with a wounded expression.

"I thought I'd quite proven my abilities and stamina last night. It's not easy to catch a fellow in midair as he's turning into a flock of bats."

"Colony."

"Pardon?"

"Birds are a flock. Bats are a colony." She took his arm in an official grip and steered him up to Pseudopolis Yard proper.

"How industrious. Very well, he was attempting to turn into a colony of inebriated bats. At the second story level, I might add."

"Yes, yes, very impressive," she paused and used her grip to make him face her, "Look, that lot were so sorry drunk they couldn't walk, run or fly a straight line. If they'd been sober you wouldn't have stood a chance."

"Not true!" he objected with obvious pride, "I could've absolutely ruined their clothes with my blood."

Sally's responding look of disbelief transformed to a smile. His grin grew wider as she pushed him to keep moving all the while laughing beneath her breath.