Following another dreadful night in the bloodstained crown of Astrorkia known as New Chemeketa, Braxton and Jerry drove towards their home located in the northern hinterlands of the capital city.

  The two were so mentally checked out and physically exhausted, they had to drive in short shifts. They already had one Vullen of a night, and would have liked to avoid crashing into a tree, rolling over into a ditch, or smearing some poor transient across the road—all things that would’ve been horrible not just because of damage to property or life, but also because such acts would’ve invited an obnoxious amount of interviews and paperwork to be filled.

  What helped them maintain their mutual focus were the twin rising suns of Catto Occulo, the unbelievable, but rapidly fading beauty of the blue hour, and the promise of sleeping in their extra firm bed. The bed, especially, seemed to whisper the promise of good, restful sleep for Jerry. Worthwhile rest was an elusive concept that always seemed to dodge him even when he was tired enough to begin hallucinating.

  In time, their car’s tires hit the dusty gravel road that winded towards their home. Jerry leaned back the best he could in his seat and admired the home he not only shared, but literally built brick by brick with Braxton while the two bounced around motels, hotels, and the various homes of the other Rangers.

  Their home was a modest, two story cabin made of cheap bricks, a facade of embarrassingly expensive wood from Condorfornia, and painted all manner of gaudy colors Braxton once hated, but learned to appreciate. The end result of their months of hard work, dozens of arguments, and more than a few gnarly, blood-spilling construction accidents was an edifice that was the truly bizarre mixture of a cozy cabin in the wood and a doomsday prepper’s off the grid house—all assembled by expensive power tools Jerry had a habit of allegedly buying at definitely unbelievable prices.

  Braxton eased the car to a slow, grinding halt then killed its electric engine. He got out then walked over to where Jerry was sitting in the left passenger side, opening the door like the true gentleman he always was.

  “Thank you, darling,” cooed Jerry.

  “Think nothing of it, dear,” Braxton replied.

  The two helped each other walk towards the door of their house. Just as Jerry reached the keys towards the lock beneath the brass doorknob, there was a chorus of howling and barking in the distance.

  “Here come our four legged prides and joys,” Jerry said. “Wanna help me feed them?”

  “Of course.”

  Jerry opened the door and walked in, followed by Braxton. They worked together to open one of the many bags of dry, discount dog food they kept in the kitchen, but lacked the will or desire to portion them properly. So they poured it into a large, metal bowl. Jerry returned outside with the bowl of dry food for all the dogs to share like the big, mutty family they were while Braxton watched from the doorframe.

  Hammer, Sparkle, Louis, Eddie, Blacktongue, Snowball, and Clappy crowded around Jerry. They barked, nipped, and nearly knocked him down, wholly oblivious to the exhaustion of their primary caretaker.

  “Will you little fur-faced bastards knock that shit off?” he asked them while setting the bowl of food down. The seven dogs wasted no time being absolute gluttons. “If even one of you overexcited pups trip me up this morning, I swear I will take all of you to the local pound to get turned into glue.”

  Braxton laughed softly. “I see your love of issuing colorful threats has expanded to the other parts of the animal kingdom.”

  “Damn straight,” Jerry said. “If something has an internal spine, its ass is potentially mine. By next week, I might even consider finding some jellyfish to antagonize. I don’t trust anything without a brain that still needs to eat, like any of the furry knuckleheads near my kneecaps.” He scratched Hammer behind one of the ears on his head and laughed.

  “The Twelve take your tongue,” Braxton said. “I don’t think you listen to the nonsense that comes out of your mouth when you’re tired.”

  “Do you think I listen to the things that come out of my mouth even when I’m well-rested?”

  Braxton looked towards the blue sky as if he could find the answer there with some searching. He then returned his eyes to Jerry. “You know what? That’s a great point.”

  When the dogs finished eating their breakfast, Jerry grabbed the empty bowl and walked into the house. Braxton closed the door behind him when he entered.

  Jerry went to the living room’s liquor cabinet, grabbing a bottle of Gadsur’s brand whiskey and two shot glasses. Braxton groaned in no little annoyance considering his personal dislike of alcohol and Jerry’s less than stellar reputation with it, but allowed it for a very special reason.

  For a few years now, Jerry and Braxton had a small ritual where after they survived any dangerous encounter and arrived home safely, they gave each other a shot of whiskey and said, “I’m glad you’re my sir” to each other before a quick kiss. Jerry adored how much Braxton complained about the sincere tackiness of the ritual.

  After finishing this ritual, the two decided to not shower, but simply strip down to nothing and fall asleep together in their master bedroom. As Jerry drifted off to sleep near Braxton’s unconscious form, he didn’t even think about the wild events of last night that bled into this morning. He thought about the dogs—those beloved, four legged friends he wished he had more time to tend to and play with.

  Like usual, Jerry’s mind drifted to his late father, a hulking, larger-than-life man by the name of Bracco Genovesi. Jerry’s father had a strange, no pun intended, bone to pick with not just dogs, but animals in general. He thought animals were only good as either living tools, dead meat made into meals, or if the many stuffed, glassy eye heads in his grand plantation mansion were any indication, terrifying decorations.

  “What a weirdo you were about a lot of things,” Jerry said off-handedly to the bedroom’s ceiling. “You missed out big time by not having a few good pooches on your side. They probably would’ve liked you more than most of your children did.”

  “What are you talking about?” Braxton mumbled, suddenly stirred from his rest.

  “Nothing much.”

  “Please make it nothing at all,” Braxton said. “Mr. Moon is going to be here in a few hours to take us to the field office, and I would really like some sleep before that overgrown house cat hits us with one of those uncomfortable Hissian stares he always has in stock.”

  Sometime around 1800, Jerry was woken up by a shirtless Braxton. That was quite the nice sight after a restful day, but what wasn’t so nice to see was what he was holding. It was his catcaller, which was in the process of ringing quite loudly in his face.

  Jerry rubbed some gunk out of his eyes and dried spit off of his face before gently taking the phone from Braxton. He looked at the caller ID. It was a private number. Jerry didn’t have to take too many guesses of who was calling him considering the events of last night. He answered the catcaller and placed it against his right ear.

  “This is Jerimiano Genovesi speaking,” he said, yawning soon afterwards. “Mr. Moon, I presume?”

  “Yes. I'm sitting in a car in front of your home with Special Agent Kirigami of the Internal Affairs Subdivision of the Triple I Division. Be ready to leave within the next thirty minutes.”

  Damned cold and professional as always, Jerry thought. No love in his heart for nothing. He cracked his stiff back, neck, then looked at Braxton.

  “You heard the Hissian. We got places to be.”

  Jerry and Braxton washed up, helped themselves to a couple of vegan protein bars to fight the growling in their bellies, then exited their home twenty minutes later. Just as Mr. Moon said, he was seated in the silently idling car while Kirigami leaned against it, helping himself to a cigarette.

  Kirigami was a short, but well-built Shibananese man in his early fifties with grey-streaked black hair formed into a messy bun. He had a rounded baby face with no hair to speak of that performed an excellent job of drawing attention to the deceptive youthfulness of his face. He waved at Jerry and Braxton before he said, “Good evening and better blessings from the Twelve, my friends.” His Shibananese accent was strong, complimenting the easy, nonchalance of his voice quite well.

  “Likewise,” Jerry said as he opened the left backseat door of the car and got in. Braxton did the same with the right backseat door.

  Kirigami finished his cigarette then entered the right passenger seat of the car. Mr. Moon coughed in response to the thick afterscent of Kirigami’s cigarette smoke.

  “Must you smoke before entering a car with somebody like me?”

  “I know Hissians have sensitive lungs and noses,” Kirigami said, “but I’ve known you for little over a decade, Mr. Moon. You’re a big kitty that’s tougher than a little secondhand smoke.”

  “Thank you for the compliment, the carcinogens, and the inconsideration,” Mr. Moon said. “I usually receive only the inconsideration in my line of work, but the compliment is an appreciated touch.”

  “You’re welcome,” Kirigami cooed.

  Jerry bit down a childish giggling fit. He hardly knew anything about Kirigami, but loved how effortlessly he needled the Vullen out of Mr. Moon.

  Mr. Moon drove out of the gravel driveway until the crushed rocks beneath the car’s tires touched solid pavement.

  The commute to the New Chemeketa field office from where Jerry and Braxton lived was about forty minutes, but for the first twenty minutes of the drive, everybody was dead silent. Mr. Moon kept his yellow eyes intensely focused on the winding road. He drove by walls of bare trees, bleak fields made barren by the winter, and a few abandoned homesteads where jumping deers, skittering rabbits, and more supernatural critters such as handy mice ruled.

  Jerry, the usual breaker of silence, natural or awkward, desired or undesired, spoke up.

  “Quiet as a tomb in here,” he announced, pointing out the obvious. “Mr. Moon, how about some-”

  “No music,” he said. “I like to drive in silence because it’s one of the few opportunities I have to get away from the constant overstimulation of living amongst humans.”

  “You consider humans as a source of constant overstimulation?” Jerry asked.

  “Humans in general are overstimulating, but I classify you in particular as hyperstimulation, Mr. Genovesi.”

  “Ouch,” he said. “Not wrong, but ouch.”

  Kirigami laughed. “Mr. Moon acts like he has no sense of humor, but he’s one of the funniest Hissians I have ever met.”

  “How many Hissians do you even know?” Jerry asked.

  “That kind of information is on a need-to-know basis,” Kirigami said.

  “Any attempts of so-called humor on my part are either completely coincidental or a foolish misinterpretation of my words and actions,” Mr. Moon said.

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  “That definitely sounds about right,” Jerry said.

  “You seem like a man that abhors silence,” Kirigami said to Jerry. “Am I correct or is that a rude assumption of mine?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say I-”

  “Be honest,” Braxton grumbled at Jerry.

  “Okay, fine! I dislike silence, but I can tolerate it. What about it, Kirigami?”

  “Nothing much about it,” he said. “Just an observation. I am paid to be observant after all. But if you don't want to tolerate more silence, I have a suggestion.”

  “Yeah?” Jerry asked.

  “Can we not?” Mr. Moon asked.

  Kirigami frowned. “We’re going to spend a lot of time interviewing these two gentlemen tonight. Why not be a little fair and let them interview you before that begins?”

  “Because that’s completely inappropriate,” Mr. Moon said. “And I don’t want Jerry or Braxton knowing more about my psyche or life than is needed.”

  “That’s understandable,” Kirigami said. He glanced backwards at Jerry and smirked. “Mr. Genovesi, you have my full, legally authorized permission as Mr. Moon’s senior to ask him what it's like to be a Hissian living outside of a clowder city.”

  “Twelvedamn it,” Mr. Moon swore in uncharacteristic anger. “Why are you like this to me?”

  “Ever since my three divorces have come and gone, I have come to realize that I can only be married to my work, and you by extension in a spiritual sense,” Kirigami said. “And what good is a marriage if you can't tease your lovely spouse?”

  Jerry and Braxton exchanged a baffled glance. Braxton whispered, “Don’t ask me to explain a damned thing going on right now.”

  “Is…is this a trap of some sort?” Jerry asked, leaning in towards Kirigami.

  “No, not at all,” he insisted. “And even if it was, allow me to let you in on a secret. If two men such as Mr. Moon or I wanted to spring a trap on you or your husband, neither of you would even recognize the snare tightening around your necks. That’s just how good we are at our jobs.”

  “That makes enough sense to me,” Jerry said. He turned his attention to Mr. Moon. “So…what’s it like being a Hissian in a human-majority city such as New Chemeketa?”

  “It’s fine,” Mr. Moon said, sounding irritated. “Most humans are fine with your existence. A minority of them aren’t fine with your existence. Another minority is obsessed with your existence. Visualize it as a bell curve. Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

  “Barely,” Jerry said. “I feel like you’re holding back with me.”

  “Because he is,” Kirigami chirped. “Come on now, Mr. Moon. Tell us how you really feel.”

  Mr. Moon sighed like he was exhaling some parts of his soul. “It’s…complicated. Most humans have never seen a Hissian in the flesh, so all they have to go on are rumors, half truths, and absolute nonsense. For example, a lot of humans think that Hissians like to eat them, especially their children, but they’ll usually never tell you that to your face. Usually. But all in all, I am treated more as a fascinating curiosity rather than a genuine threat. Even though I don’t like living in human cities, you humans have this interesting ability to not just tolerate, but even welcome something as ‘strange’ as a talking, bipedal cat man.”

  “I’m glad you got that off your furry chest,” Jerry said. “I resonate with a lot of the honest things you just said, and I respect that.”

  “Don’t try to flatter me,” Mr. Moon said. “Flattery gives me indigestion.”

  “Oh, come on now,” Jerry said. “You and I both know ass kissing is my least favorite way of interacting with others.”

  “Then tell me what resonates with what I said to you.”

  “You betcha! When some people hear my full name, they think differently about me in a lot of real bad ways,” Jerry said. “There’s not a lot of Nuragians in the Mendakian Union, so all they have to go on are rumors, half truths, and absolute nonsense. ‘Nuragians are brutish thugs. Nuragians are shifty bastards. Nuragians are easy to anger and hard to calm down.’ I might personally be some level of all the things I mentioned, but it just isn’t right to think that of all Nuragians, right? Most of the other Nuragians I have met in my life aren’t exceptionally evil or exceptionally good. They’re just…people. People trying to get by the best they can. Like you said yourself, Mr. Moon, think of it as a bell curve.”

  “And behold the magic of opening up to the right folks,” Kirigami said. “How does everybody feel?”

  “Fine,” Jerry said.

  “Decent,” Braxton said.

  “Embarrassed,” Mr. Moon said.

  “Embarrassment is just your body reacting to the discomfort your soul needs to experience to grow stronger,” Kirigami said. “You’re one of the smartest beings I have ever had the pleasure of meeting and training, Mr. Moon, but I’ll truly begin to respect you when you internalize that simple fact.”

  “I have a headache now,” Mr. Moon said.

  “Of course you do,” Kirigami said. “Your beloved spiritual spouse is right here.”

  They arrived at New Chemeketa’s Triple I Division field office via a connected parking garage. They left the car one by one, then proceeded to move towards the actual building, their shoes echoing off the cold concrete of the structure.

  Mr. Moon and Kirigami walked behind Jerry and Braxton, deliberately guiding them where they needed to go. Jerry loathed the idea of anybody walking behind him, but calmed himself down by reminding himself that if Mr. Moon or Kirigami wanted to get the jump on him or Braxton, they would’ve had dozens of earlier, much better opportunities to do so.

  Once they entered the field office proper and stood in the lobby, Kirigami offered Jerry and Braxton stale coffaux and older donuts from a nearby table. Neither man took the terrible offer. Jerry and Braxton were then split from each other. Jerry had the dubious honor of being interrogated by Mr. Moon while Braxton went away with Kirigami.

  Mr. Moon led Jerry down a few flights of stairs and through a handful of desolate, but brightly lit hallways until they arrived at a sparse room where there were only two steel chairs, a bare steel table, and a security camera high in the corner. Mr. Moon pulled the chair for Jerry then pulled his own, sitting down in it.

  Mr. Moon produced his PTALP and the lancet pen needed to use it. Once Mr. Moon finished the small process of bloodletting and thumb pressing on the paper, he regarded Jerry with cool, neutral eyes. His intense Hissian stare was still as strong as usual, though.

  “The individual conducting this interrogation is Mr. Moon of the Triple I Division, internal affairs subdivision, rank G-4.” He nodded towards Jerry. “State your full legal name, federal division, subdivision, and rank for the record, please.”

  “Jerimiano Luzzigy Genovesi of the Triple I Division, investigation subdivision, classified rank.”

  “Mr. Genovesi, on the night of Decendus 2nd near approximately 1925, when you were carrying out an arrest warrant for an individual known as Bradley “Birdshit” Sandaux, you claimed…”

  The interrogation that followed wasn’t the longest or the most difficult one Jerry had been put through in his life. But it was certainly one of the fairest. There wasn’t a loaded gun pointed at his head while thuggish illiterates punched him in the face, gut, and goolies. Even better, Mr. Moon hadn’t even hung Jerry upside down by the feet. That was a very nice touch.

  However, what bothered Jerry the most about the interrogation was how tedious, grueling, and almost banal it all felt. Jerry possessed no real reason to blatantly lie or even twist the truth to cover his or Braxton’s asses about what happened after Birdshit decided to go literally ballistic. But Mr. Moon seemed determined to make Jerry stumble over his words and throw them back in his face with all manner of word games, leading questions, or overt accusations of misconduct.

  Mr. Moon did take issue with Jerry deciding to raid the apartment without proper support from Exorcist Division operators or gendarmerie TAC-ACT, but considered this a minor, forgivable offense. Yet despite it all, Jerry pulled through and satisfied Mr. Moon’s professional and personal curiosity three hours later.

  “And that about covers it,” Mr. Moon said while deactivating his PTALP. “In my mildly unprofessional opinion, I am shocked that you can deal with how I deal with you without resorting to your commonly complained about behavior. Why is that?”

  “Will my answer be recorded?”

  Mr. Moon glanced at the security camera. “That doesn’t record audio and I have already deactivated my PTALP…so no, your answer will not be recorded.”

  “Avoiding prison has always been a strong motivation in my life, Mr. Moon.”

  Following the interrogation performed by Mr. Moon, Jerry was given a small break and some time to think. Mr. Moon left him to stew alone in the room for what felt like ten thousand years until he returned.

  “Dr. Moenstaggers is ready to give you your psychological fitness examination.”

  “Wonderful.” Jerry stood up and stretched a little. “Lead the way, please.”

  Mr. Moon escorted Jerry to a higher floor in the field office, where Dr. Grebella Moenstaggers’ personal office was to be found. Mr. Moon opened the door and left Jerry for Dr. Moenstaggers to handle for a few hours instead.

  Despite the harsh, clinical coldness of just about everything in the field office, Dr. Moenstaggers’ personal one was decorated in what seemed like deliberate opposition. The floors were dark wood and thickly carpeted. The fours walls were full of framed degrees, group photos, and art done by local (and Information Warfare Division approved) artists from New Chemeketa. Even though there were no windows or no natural light to speak of, warm, candle-like light came down from an electric chandelier situated high above Dr. Moenstaggers’ massive, wooden desk, where the woman of the hour herself sat behind.

  Dr. Moenstagger was a short, sturdy woman with dusty blonde hair, penetrating blue eyes, and a broad, angular face. In other words, the stereotypical idea of what a Krieglandian woman looked like if you asked somebody to envision one. She smiled genuinely at Jerry, who returned one just as genuine.

  Though Jerry regarded most psychologists, therapists, and psychiatrists as society’s primary agents of “over-domestication” and con-artists who invented the problems they went on to solve, he had a soft spot for Dr. Grebella Moenstaggers. She was the Rangers’ primary psychiatrist who tended to their psychological wounds with the expertise of a seasoned surgeon regarding physical wounds.

  And despite being an older, mundane Krieglander woman who spent most of her minimal free time doing mundane things like biking, jogging, or attending theologian conferences, she had the uncanny ability to annihilate Jerry’s sturdiest defensive mechanisms and get to the truth of his issues. It was not uncommon for him to leave her office crying not out of despair or shame, but for giving him a new perspective to doing better.

  Jerry long suspected that if he hadn’t met Dr. Moenstaggers four years ago, he would have been fished out of a wet, shallow ditch a long time ago, bloated and drowned by being unable to get up due to his issues with constant intoxication.

  “Good evening and better blessings from the Twelve,” he said to her as he sat in the plush, leatherette chair facing her desk.

  “And to you as well, Mr. Genovesi,” she said. “By the way, is that how you want me to address you tonight?”

  “You of all people know how I feel about my family name and all the baggage that comes with it,” he said. “But I don’t mind you saying it. The way you say my surname is tasty enough to put on a plate. You really do have one killer accent, Dr. Moenstaggers.”

  “Thank you,” she cooed. “I get that a lot. People in the Mendakian Union tend to enjoy the exotic, and what is more exotic than an authentic Krieglander accent in the wild?”

  “A Rusalkian accent?” Jerry suggested. “I have only heard that two or three times in my long, forty-plus years of life, I’m afraid.”

  Dr. Moenstaggers laughed softly. “Yes, that much is true. Now, let’s do the examination, shall we?”

  “With great pleasure, doctor.”

  Unlike the dicy, subtly deceptive encounter with Mr. Moon, Dr. Moenstaggers’ psychological examination was honest, straightforward, and more like a conversation with a good friend than an interrogation.

  Dr. Moenstaggers asked questions and Jerry answered them—simple as that. No word games. No leading. Not even a pinch of accusation. Just pure back and forth—until the issue of Jerry’s drinking came up. Jerry lacked the heart to lie directly to Moenstagger’s face about it, so he took the coward's way out by omitting dire details, downplaying incidents of active alcoholism, and leaning on his classic, tried and true tactic of attempting to baffle her with bullshit.

  It failed to work.

  “Mr. Genovesi,” she sighed heavily. “You used to be in the Henryson Marine Corps, correct?”

  “Not just the Henryson Marine Corps, but the Henryson Marine Marauders,” he said with some embittered, complicated pride. “For when the tip of the spear isn’t enough. But why do you ask? You already knew that.”

  “Tell me,” she said, “what happens when you are given bad intelligence before acting on the field.”

  “Things are guaranteed to go cattywampus,” he said. “At best, people get hurt. Things that aren’t supposed to break end up broken. Targets get enough time to retreat and regroup and react properly to your maneuvers. At worst, your people get killed or you end up in situations where you wish you got killed.”

  “So with this in mind,” Dr. Moenstaggers said, “why do you think it is acceptable to give yourself and I bad intelligence on how to attack your most pressing problems?”

  “Oh.” Jerry felt like a kid who got caught pissing the bed. “I’m…I’m sorry, doc. When I really think about it, I’m not as smart as a lot of people say I am.”

  “There is no need to apologize to me or talk like that about yourself,” Dr. Moenstaggers said. “We both know you are prone to all manners of masochism, which I will have no part in enabling. Just remember to schedule another session where you will promise to speak more honestly to me, okay?”

  “Yes, ma'am."

  Sometime later, Jerry and Braxton reunited with each other in the field offices lobby filled with too many bright lights, a bored receptionist, and two armed security guards who looked even twice as bored. The couple hugged and patted one another on the back.

  “How did your interrogation go?” Jerry asked Braxton.

  “Nothing to really complain about, but I think Kirigami talks too slowly and too much,” Braxton said. “I think he was half asleep during the whole thing.”

  “Lucky you,” Jerry said. “I'm certain Mr. Moon was trying to trap me with his questions.”

  “Considering how paranoid you are, who do you think isn’t trying to trap you with something?”

  “The dead and you,” Jerry said.

  Mr. Moon and Kirigami arrived some moments later, looking rather tired and worn down considering the long, drawn-out events of the night.

  “Are you two gentlemen ready to return home tonight?” Kirigami asked. “I’m ready to drive you there with the help of my spiritual spouse.”

  “Keep referring to me like that and I will open a case with human resources,” Mr. Moon said. “I'm serious.”

  “No, you won’t.” Kirigami returned his attention to Jerry and Braxton. “Or should I just call a taxicab for you two?”

  “I would love it if you and Mr. Moon drove us home,” Jerry said. “That way, Braxton and I can get a nice ride and a show.”