Things Heat Up

Brolath's head was sore once again. In fact, it had been sore ever since they arrived on Earth. A Lacertan orbital strike targeted the planet a mere hour before Brolath and Rorgh's arrival, which was safely destroyed and according to the official record: well in advance. As much as that sounded very optimistic, Brolath knew that things during wartime tended to get a bit exaggerated in order to keep morale up and Earth was dangerously close to the Lacertan colony of Procyonid.

It first started with a brief thought of Chikal; although Brolath was beginning to expertly toss away such painful memories, they still stung when they invaded his mind. Then came the stress of booking a last-minute flight across the planet, getting herded into a primitive jet-plane that felt like it was going to fall apart on take-off, and then the endless flight itself. Patient though Brolath was, the cramped surroundings of the flight and the scents of hundreds of strangers made his headache worse.

But worse of all was the sun. It was bright yellow and it was searing to the eyes, far unlike the soothing blue of Regulus. Even if Brolath had not had the color implants put in, he would have found the eerie yellowish tone of Earth to be unsettling compared to home.

Finally, arriving in the airport of the city known as New Orleans, was what nearly did them both in. The plane was forced to land and disembark on the taxiway, as the planned gate was malfunctioning, and they both got a taste of the hot, humid air of the region. Both of the aliens were panting a mere minute after being exposed and their noses and paws were dripping with sweat.

“I thought you Regulians liked the heat?" Rorgh gasped while they rode on a shuttle-bus that was equally packed. Naturally, the air conditioning was broken.

“Dry heat!" Brolath licked his nose. “Nothing like this!"

Finally, the shuttle came to a stop and the two aliens clamored towards the entrance to the terminal.

“They say Lacertans are equally comfortable with both dry and wet heat!" Rorgh's long tongue flapped out the side of his mouth as he ran.

“Of course they do!" Brolath snarled. “Only a race of mindless lizards could like this!"

Brolath caught himself, spying several humans among them, many of which who were carrying their alien Master's carry-on baggage. A Sirian, tall and lanky with gray fur, slapped a small and scrawny human across the face for seemingly no reason.

As they entered the terminal, Brolath suddenly found himself shivering while Rorgh sighed contentedly, his tail wagging behind him.

“Just like the crisp, mountain air back on Lupus!" Rorgh exclaimed.

Brolath grumbled and approached a vending machine near the security checkpoint, purchasing a bottle of water. He tilted his head back and poured the cool drink across his parched tongue. Something banged against his shoulder and he dropped the bottle on the ground.

Turning to the right, Brolath roared directly in the face of the person who bumped into him: a tan-skinned human with black hair styled to look like a mane. The human stared back at him with anger in his hazel eyes and if it weren't for the human's two friends holding him back, a man and a women, both with dark-brown skin, almost black; Brolath would have been obligated to teach the human a lesson in humility.

Snarling as the human was pulled away, Brolath continued on with Rorgh, getting through security without any questions after a quick flash of their Regulian Guard badges. They went through the main area of the terminal, a three story square lobby with escalators reaching up to the top, and went to the rental area to get their vehicle.

Brolath had insisted to the Adjunct that they rent a car that would be more typical of Earth, so as to blend in. Rorgh had angrily objected that there was no way they wouldn't stand out and proceeded to name all the various ways they differed from the natives, but Brolath wouldn't hear it. If he was on Regulus while on a mission, he would drive a Citizen's Coupe; if he was on Lupus, it'd be a Rhombus; if he was on Beta Vulpeculae, he'd use a Desert Hauler imported from Regulus.

And since he was on Earth, apparently he'd be driving a Chrysler Cirrus.

The green, four door sedan was a bit of a challenge for the seven foot tall Regulian to get in and he insisted that Rorgh drive so that Brolath could recline and have some degree of comfort. Rorgh, being six foot tall, did bang his head while getting in but otherwise managed to get in without much difficulty.

“I'm beginning to regret my insistence on a local car," Brolath muttered as he looked around for a port to charge his datapad in. To his surprise, he couldn't find one. “By the Emperor! What does this thing run on, coal!?"

“Petroleum," Rorgh said as he inserted the keys into a slot attached to the steering wheel. The engine squealed several times before roaring weakly like a Regulian with a bad cold. “Don't get too smug, we're drilling Earth dry of the stuff as auxiliary fuel for the war. Empire just can't produce enough synth-fuel to meet demand."

“Earth's rich with oil, isn't it?" Brolath asked as they passed a series of billboards advertising fresh seafood and barbeque restaurants in New Orleans. “I've heard a master race of reptilians once ruled the planet billions of years ago and kept humans as slaves. Read a book about that once, 'The Empire of the Dinosaurs.'"

“Captain, that book is contraband for being crypto-Lacertan propaganda and erotica; its author, Alatha Stognof, Sirian, is serving ten years. I will ignore your admission to reading that," Rorgh rolled his eyes as they merged onto a freeway. “And yes, Earth used to be a planet of reptiles, non-sentient ones-"

“Just like the Lacertans!" Brolath interrupted.

“...non-sentient reptiles without the blessings of a rogue AI guiding them. And they certainly didn't have human concubines, humans didn't even exist yet!" Rorgh groaned. “either way, a meteor hit and Earth got cold and the air grew thin. The great reptiles of the past died and their bodies decomposed, eventually turning into crude oil; while the smaller mammals thrived and evolved into the humans we know today."

“And now they're the newest members of the Regulian family."

The datapad started beeping and the name, “Guard-General Pracloth," popped up.

“Oh shit!" Brolath cursed and raked his claws through his mane. “It's the boss! How's my mane look?"

“It looks like a bird's nest."

Brolath flipped down the passenger mirror and took a good look. His dark-brown mane was frizzled to a point of ridiculousness. Atmospheric entry, followed by a continental flight had done horrors to his grand mane, but he had no time to prepare to uphold grooming standards; the Guard-General was calling.

Tapping the screen with his claw, Brolath shifted his seat up and cleared his throat with a dignified look on his face.

Procloth's face showed on on the screen. The old Regulian had quite the colorful career, having first worked as a slave hunter, then served with honor in the Imperial Army before taking up the cause of law and order; ascending the ranks of the Regulian Guard until he was the highest-ranked member of it. As such, his face showed off his career: his pale, white fur was marked by scars running across his face ranging from ancient, dull wounds from struggling, escaped slaves; all the way to fresh, red claw marks running across his snout. Considering the Guard-General had not worked in the field for at least a decade, one wondered where he got that from but few were brave enough to ask.

“Captain Brolath!" Proclath's voice was unbearably raspy. Ever since he was a teenaged cub, he had taken up smoking as a hobby and considered himself a galactic connoisseur of it. Right now he was smoking a fat cigar from Earth, not caring for a moment that he had gone through two lung transplants already. “I hear the Emperor has assigned you to Earth! Not good, not very good at all! I thought your seduction of the Emperor would have netted you some cushy job, oh I dunno, at his Summer Palace? What the hell are you doing on Earth?"

“The Emperor commanded it, as you said!" Brolath pounded his chest with his fist. “And respectfully, sir, I did not seduce the Emperor nor do I have any amb-"

“Oh for-" Proclath slapped his paw over his face, “-kidding, I was kidding! Look at this guy, thinks he's too good for a joke!"

Proclath popped his cigar between his lips and cursed when he realized the flame had gone out. Snatching a gold-plated lighter with his initials in the traditional Regulian script, he began flicking it, sending sparks flying, “Doesn't matter though, the Emperor is keen on you! He wouldn't want any harm to come to you, which brings me to my concerns. Yeah, my big fucking concerns that you're gonna turn this case into a clusterfuck to end all clusterfucks."

The lighter suddenly shot up an orange flame and Proclath calmly let it ignite the tip of his cigar while he puffed it, until a steady stream of smoke began floating in the air. Two jets of smoke shot out of his nostrils and he sighed.

Suddenly, Proclath roared so loud that the speakers of the datapad popped and he slammed his fist into his desk, “WHY THE FUCK AREN'T YOU MEETING SHALTH!? YOUR ADJUNCT REPORTED SOME SHIT ABOUT YOU GOING TO SOME HICK TOWN BECAUSE YOU SAW SOME TATTOOS THAT LOOKED FUNNY!?"

“Sir, I can explain!"

“Please do!" Proclath snarled and brushed his gray mane. “Your Adjunct defended you, by the way, so don't go whining to him after you're done. I read his cloying, sycophantic report on you and I could smell shit from a mile away."

“Sir, the Claw are arrogant and believe they are the only true intelligence department in the Empire. They are, as the Emperor feared, getting far too arrogant for their own good and complacent, they are beginning to overlook witnesses and leads," Brolath bowed politely, “I have a lead here, it's a long-shot, but if I bring a suspect in at the same time I meet Shalth and the Claw, they will respect me more for getting results."

“Hmph!" Proclath grunted and took a slow puff on his cigar. “Don't fucking care for that obviously rehearsed speech justifying your damned insubordination."

Proclath reclined in his chair and planted his shiny, black shoes on his desk, his long hocks hanging down from his feet and past the camera, “But the Claw could use a lesson in humility. So far your little hunches have proven to be quite fruitful, so I'll let it slide just this once. I'll make some calls and have reinforcements waiting on standby near your target."

“Thank you, sir," Brolath pounded his chest in salute.

“Don't fuck this up."

Abel was in a foul mood.

Landing in the airport proved to be quite the stressful situation. Whatever that broadcast that had hijacked the plane's screens had been, it was enough to get the authorities jumpy and a small group of armed soldiers were waiting at the gate to escort all passengers in groups to a small meeting room.

Abel and his friends had been in the last group. They were force to watch a video about Lacertan spies, confirming without a shadow of a doubt that the broadcast was a Lacertan hack. The video asked viewers to watch out for individuals who: make comments about how, “What's the difference between one Empire ruling us and the other?" have pet reptiles, have a fascination with mythological reptiles such as dragons, or are members of the “Scaly," fandom.

The video ended with a reminder that Lacertans are not sentient beings and having an attraction to one is like being attracted to a computer. Holding attraction or sympathy for them is an arrestable offense; God forbid, having intercourse with one, even in the traditional Regulian dominating way, is grounds for summary execution.

After that, a Sirian Claw agent who was about five foot tall and looked like an oversized purse dog, sat on a chair backwards in an embarrassing attempt to be casual before asking the crowd if anyone on the plane had said anything suspicious.

Abel felt his blood grow cold. Although his friends were whispering on the plane, he realized he made a fatal mistake in underestimating the sharp ears of the aliens. He wanted to look at Hada and Gure but fought against the urge, knowing that his eyes would implicate him. The Claw did not need reasons to arrest.

Thankfully, no one spoke up and Abel was allowed to leave. By this point, Abel had just about enough stress for one day, was now hours late for his planned arrival time in town, and just wanted to calm down and get moving.

Turning a corner and bumping into a Regulian wearing a yellow coat was the last thing he wanted. The brown-furred Regulian dropped a bottle of water on the ground and before Abel could apologize, the Regulian had hunched over and roared in Abel's face.

Saliva splattered against Abel's cheek and his vision went white. Abel remembered how the Regulians he went to class with as a child would condescend and berate him for being a weaker species; videos of Regulian war-time atrocities played out in his brain, showing Regulians happily laughing as they executed surrendered rebels.

Abel couldn't take it anymore. He was going to kill this cat and would have tried if Hada and Gure didn't hold him back.

He was grateful for that, he would have been killed if they hadn't intervened, but couldn't bring himself to apologize on the taxi ride into town.

Abel's anger was tested again when they were dropped off at the hotel, a five-story beige building with cast-iron balconies lining it as was typical in the French Quarter. A Regulianess asked his crew if their master had authorized them to stay and Abel just barely managed to contain his rage and pull out proof of his nobility. There was no rules about free humans staying at the hotel, adopted or otherwise, the clerk had just taken the opportunity to degrade the group of humans, such was life under the Regulian yoke.

“Abel, you need to calm your ass down!" Gure lectured him as he meticulously brushed his short, frizzy hair. He was still wearing his frilly suit from the flight. “Just smile and nod, okay? It's not hard!"

“I'm sorry!" Abel finally admitted and flopped down on his bed. “Just couldn't handle it anymore, you know?"

“Just think of them as big, giant kitty-cats!" Gure wiped a glob of hair gel into his scalp. “Just silly, grumpy kitties telling you what to do! Now, isn't that dumb, getting mad about it?"

“Isn't that why we're here?" I asked. “Because we're pissed off and not going to fucking take any more of it?"

“You've gotta be smart with your anger," Hada was lying on her bed, flicking through the channels on the television. All the channels were talking about the orbital attack by the Lacertans, mixed with a few commercials for mind-numbing alien dramas or for signing up to the military. “I'm pissed off too but getting torn apart would've solved nothing."

“I'm not mad at all!" Gure proclaimed as he stepped out of the washroom, looking absolutely pristine. Abel could never figure out his secret. “I want freedom for Earth but I'm not going to let myself get mad. No way."

“If only all of humanity could share your positive attitude, Gure," Abel muttered.

“Don't get bitchy with me, Abel! You know goddamn well that I'm here to fight to free Earth and everyone on it. The Empire is trying their best to crush our souls but you can't let them," Gure said as he began picking up his gun-case. “So yeah, I hate the Empire, I hate the Claw, I hate the Guard. But you know what? I still like dressing up, I like music, and I like shooting with you guys. I'm not going to let anger ruin what I love and one day, when we're old, we can enjoy all these things together with aliens from all over the galaxy. No anger and no hate, just love."

Abel's heart stirred despite the cynicism of his brain telling him otherwise. It was a wonderful dream and Abel wanted to believe in it but it was hard, so very hard to think it possible.

“You believe that, huh?" Hada muttered.

“Damn straight I do!"

All three of them left the hotel shortly after, carrying their assorted gun-cases with the appropriate documentation in case they were stopped.

Taking a left at Conti Street, they passed through the chaos of Bourbon Street. The party never stopped on Bourbon, not even an alien invasion could make it. New Orleans was always a very diverse city and now it looked like an intergalactic hub with aliens seamlessly blending into the crowd of party-goers, drunks, prostitutes, and tourists.

A tiger-like Regulian suddenly grabbed Abel by the shoulder and nuzzled him, he reeked of passion-fruit syrup and rum. Laughing nervously, Abel slipped out of the feline's grip, causing the Regulian to nearly spill his tall, plastic hand-grenade glass. As soon as Abel had left, the Regulian shrugged and made his way back into the crowd.

“See, Abel?" Gure laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. “There is hope for friendly Terran-Regulian relations yet!"

Despite the possibly amorous intentions of the Regulian, Abel had to admit that he was not afraid of him like other Regulians. Perhaps alcohol was the great equalizer?

Abel shook his head and felt foolish for over-thinking the matter.

Leaving the cacophony of house music and touts behind them, the friends passed a twenty-four hour dive that had a crew of four young humans sitting against the stucco walls with glass beer bottles, in defiance of municipal laws about drinking from plastic cups on the street.

“Look at the fucking kittens!" one of them shouted, pointing at Abel and his friends, in particular at Gure who, despite wearing gear inspired by an eccentric rebel group in Africa, looked just like a pampered dandy to them. “Off to purr for a saucer of milk from their masters!"

“FUCKING TRAITORS!" another shrieked.

A chorus of crashing beer bottles followed as Abel's group picked up their pace to avoid getting hit.

“YEAH! GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!" they shouted, thankfully choosing not to pursue.

“If only they knew what we were doing here," Abel sighed.

“Can't be helped," Hada shrugged, “let them hate us. If it weren't for our privilege we wouldn't have these gifts."

Burgundy Street approached along with the Red Rose. The bar was just there on the corner, looking much like any other joint in the Quarter. A bouncer stood guard, a short and stout human wearing jeans and a t-shirt of some obscure metal band. He held up his palm as the three approached.

“We don't want yer trouble here," the bouncer said, nodding at the gun-cases. “Get lost!"

“I'm the Second Son of Adam," Abel said quietly.

The bouncer's eye's flickered and he tilted his head to the side sharply, “Round back, knock four times," he whispered quietly before raising his voice, “now get lost!"

Taking the hint, the group traveled down the sidewalk, turning down an alleyway into what was once a small courtyard but now just served as a place to dump garbage. An old wooden door was on the right and the distant hum of jazz music could be heard.

Abel knocked on the door four times slowly and almost immediately, the door swung open.

A Vulpeculan was standing in the doorway and Abel suddenly found himself at a loss for words. Unlike most Vulpies Abel had met, she was not dressed as a servant nor did she in any way conduct herself in the manner of a slave; nor did she present any airs like Hada's adopted mother did. She stood there, proud and tall (At least, tall for a Vulpeculan, being just shy of five feet and ten inches.) wearing jeans and an olive-colored jacket. Atop her head was a brown, plaid flatcap that complimented her thin, narrow snout in a very aesthetic way.

“See something you like, smoothy?" her pale-green eyes stared at Abel with a suspicious glance. Her scarlet tail swished behind her.

Sensing Abel's loss for words, Hada spoke up.

“He's the Second Son of Adam," Hada announced and slapped her gun-case, “and we're his crew."

“Join the party," she stepped to the side and motioned to the right.

Gure and Hada were the first to enter. Abel was still a little flabbergasted and caught himself staring at the vixen like an awkward teenager. He managed to control himself just in time for her to look back at him.

“You coming, smoothy?" she narrowed her eyes.

Clearing his throat, Abel stepped through the door, “My name's Abel an-"

“Yeah..." she rolled her eyes, “...lets save the names for after you've been cleared."

“Right, uh, that makes sense."

“Not to make you panic, smooth-cheeks, but we're running on a schedule," she patted at a leather holster tied to her hip that housed a revolver, “so if you don't mind..."

“Yes, uh, sorry!" Abel nodded as the Vulpy closed the door behind them and locked it.

The hallway was dark and smelled of stale beer. It was an old building, as many were in the French Quarter, and the history seemed to leak out of the cracked brick and hardwood floors.

Light escaped from an open door on the left and a man with a deep voice could be heard talking on the phone.

“...I don't give a shit what Glass thinks. We'll get him what he wants our way, okay?"

As the group approached, he slammed the phone loudly onto its receiver and spoke, “Bring them in, Red!"

Sighing, the Vulpeculan patted her revolver and nodded towards the door. That was all that was needed for the crew to understand.

A dark-skinned man was sitting at the desk, completely bald except for his eyebrows. His brown eyes were intense and seemed to pierce into each member of the group as they entered. Abel felt something cold run down his spine.

“Sit," the man spoke with an unnervingly calm voice and motioned towards three rickety wooden chairs.

As the three of them sat, the man began rustling some papers, “Were you followed?"

“No," Abel answered.

“Are you sure?"

“I'm sure."

“Wrong," the man grumbled and tapped a keyboard before flipping around the flat-screen monitor to face the team. Pictures of Abel, Gure, and Hada casually strolling through town with suspicious cases were on full display. Even a picture of the drunken Regulian snuggling up against Abel was there, looking like a large, friendly cat from the distant lens of the camera. “We've been following you ever since you left the hotel. Sloppy work, children."

“I could have sworn-"

“The only fucking reason I let you clowns in here is because of that document you stole from the government about the Lacertan slave camps being a ruse!" the man rubbed at his leathery temples and groaned. “That and the fact that we know no one else was following you. Guess you weren't on the lookout for humans, huh? Welcome to the jungle, children. Claws been hiring informants and agents from the furless, don't you know?"

Hada spoke up, “But-"

“No fucking buts, this is the real deal and if that's too much for you to handle you can go on home to your mansion and cry about it, we'll handle the rest ourselves."

An uneasy silence hung over the room and Abel couldn't bring himself to break it.

Sighing wearily, the man continued, “Names Arnold, former US Marine and leader of this branch of the Terran Confederacy Movement. You kids got sloppy but everyone does when they start out, just learn from it. If there's anything else I don't know about, now would be the time to bring it up."

“There's nothing else," said Abel, “we'll do better from here on out."

“That's what I like to hear!" Arnold exclaimed before leaning over his desk and hollering. “Red!"

The Vulpeculan stepped in, tail gently swishing behind her, “Yes, Captain?"

“Grab our guest's cases and take stock."

“Yes sir!" she flashed a salute from her forehead and rolled a dolly in, placing the gun-cases onto them before taking them out.

“We're gonna need those back for tomorrow, got our tournament then," Gure cleared his throat.

Arnold chuckled. “Gotta have a reason to be carrying around a gun with signs of recent use if you're caught!"

Abel nodded.

“Make sure to off yourself if it looks like you're about to be captured," Arnold got up and beckoned the group to follow him. “I don't like saying it and I don't believe in leaving a man behind, but if it comes down to it...it's a mercy compared to what the Claw will do to you. Do you think you can do that?"

“Y-yes," Abel stammered as he followed Arnold.

“You're lying, that's fine," Arnold sighed, “only a fanatic could say that without missing a beat and I'm not looking for those types. I want you to fight for Earth, not die for it, you hear?"

“Loud and clear!" Gure replied and slapped the back of his hand against his forehead awkwardly.

Arnold snatched his hand and corrected his salute so that it conformed to what Abel imagined was some kind of pre-invasion military standard.

“Down the left, that's the bar," Arnold motioned towards a heavy door that muffled an acidic jazz number that was tooting away on the other side, “place only closes for cleaning between five and six in the morning, stop by if you want some leftover gumbo from the kitchen."

Swinging away from the door, Arnold led the group past the entrance they had come in through, “Make sure to come in this way and knock, there'll always be someone waiting to open it and if there isn't, then get the hell out and it was nice knowing you!"

Abel hadn't seen it when he first entered, but there was a staircase further down, hidden in the dim light of the hallway. Arnold led them up it, its ancient floorboards squeaking painfully as they did.

“You've already met Red, any of you got any problem working with aliens?"

“Long as they can be trusted," Hada murmured.

“No problem!" Gure spoke over Hada. “A free Earth is a free planet for everyone!"

Arnold suddenly stopped and peered down at Gure with a look that could have curdled blood. If Abel hadn't been right behind Gure, chances are the foppishly dressed young man would have toppled right over with panic.

Suddenly, Arnold broke the silence with a laugh, “This kid knows whats up!" and slapped him on the cheek lightly before continuing up. “They say that there's maybe a million slaves that the Regulians brought with them, most of the Vulpeculans, hell, even a few Regulians themselves. As far as I'm concerned, that's the best thing the cats ever gave us: a million possible friends to join the fight."

Arnold shoved open a rickety door and lead the team into a dusty, abandoned bar on the second floor. There were a few others lounging around and minding their own business, casting only the briefest of glances towards the new arrivals. One of them was the Vulpeculan from before, who was carefully going through the gun-cases and writing down on a clipboard.

“Alright, you've already met Red over there," Arnold motioned towards the Vulpeculan, who gave the group a lazy wave.

“This lazy, greasy-haired motherfucker over here is Slick," Arnold pointed towards a middle-aged ghost of a man with shiny black hair combed back. Slick, who was hunched over the counter with a cigarillo sticking out of his lips, slowly raised his hand and flashed Arnold the one-finger salute. “He might not look like much, but he's our demolitions expert, God help us all."

“Fuck you, Captain!" Slick grumbled. He had an accent that Abel couldn't quite place, sounding British of some kind.

“And these two animals about to rut..." Arnold paused as he pointed to two others. A gray-furry Lupiad had a slim and muscular human pinned to the bottom of the both. The Lupaid's nose was sniffing at the human's face passionately while the human kissed the wolf-like alien on the lips, “...are Arthur and Lobo."

“It'd Lokralich, goddammit!" the Lupiad took a second to break away from making out to snarl at the Captain.

“Nobody here can pronounce that shit, Lobo!"

“Yeah, well I can't pronounce that name either!" Lobo sniffed before mouthing the word and getting caught up on the letter “B." Both Regulians and Lupiads did have their equivalent to the letter but it sounded quite different from how humans said it, shorter and exhaled sharply with their lungs, to the point where it was a different noise entirely and almost like a hybrid of B and V.

“Hon, it's okay!" Arthur pushed aside his long, blonde hair and kissed his lover on the tip of his black nose.

“They're the best damn shots I've ever seen. I'd trust them with my life," Arnold smiled slightly for a second.

“Last and certainly least!" Arnold led everyone over to a booth where a rather overweight man sat, surrounded by computer and radio equipment that he was furiously fiddling around with. A bowl of red rice and beans was lying on the table, precariously close to falling off the edge. “Remy, our very own eye in the sky!"

“Can't talk," Remy muttered as he jammed a screwdriver into the case of a computer. “Modifying tracking beacons, trying to save us from getting killed. Regulian tech, very dangerous, genius at work here, shoo!"

Arnold sighed, “Don't worry, he's only a total fucking asshole when he's working, otherwise he's a good guy and a damned genius with tech."

“Quite the motley crew you've got here," Abel said offhand.

“They're the best, believe me," Arnold nodded. “Why don't you all sit down, have a drink and get acquainted? I'll swing on back in a bit with the mission details."

“This is a bad idea," Rorgh muttered as he pulled into Lafayette Gardens Trailer Park. It located a few hours away from New Orleans proper, just off a freeway exit. It wasn't quite in the middle of nowhere but it came pretty damn close.

Rorgh's ear twitched as he heard the bells of wind-chimes rattling fiercely, cascading down the streets of the park gradually.

“Captain, you hear that?" Rorgh asked.

Brolath nodded.

“I think it's some kinda alarm," Rorgh peered around the streets nervously. It was still light out but the sun would be setting in an hour or two. The streets were seemingly empty but occasionally Rorgh would catch a pair of eyes peering at them from behind the window blinds of one of the run-down trailers and mobile homes.

“I imagine so. It's fine," Brolath said calmly but still upholstered his IMP-201 Disruptor and made sure it was charged. The square-head of the gray, metallic pistol had two barrels, one above the other; the top fired an invisible but very deadly laser beam while the bottom fired a small electric cell attached to a dart that would deliver an (Ideally) non-lethal jolt of electricity. It took a lot of training to master switching between the firing modes without thinking about it, but Brolath counted himself as an expert now.

“You sure about that?"

“They're being as loud as possible with an innocuous noise, that means two things: they want their friends to know we're here and they want us to know that they've got their eyes on us," Brolath hissed as he slipped his pistol back into its place, “they're probably hiding some sort of a criminal operation. Smuggling, drugs...not our concern."

A sharp, shrieking noise suddenly pierced through the car and the two aliens clutched at their ears.

“What the hell was that!?" Brolath shouted, his brain aching.

“That's what the humans call a dog whistle!" Rorgh shuddered and turned right, passing a rusty, blue trailer with cinderblocks instead of wheels. “They blow on those things during protests or just to piss us off. They can't hear the racket they make with their little ears."

“Good," Brolath groaned, “I mean, not good, but at least it means they probably just want to mess with us. Wake me up when they start pulling out their guns."

Rorgh slowed down the car and parked it next to the curb. A mobile home with hot-pink aluminum siding was there and a rickety screen door squeaked as it swayed in the wind.

“Here we are," Rorgh checked his own side-arm and got out of the car.

Brolath got out as well, dusting off the bottom of his yellow jacket after he got to his feet. A sharp squeal rang out behind them and Brolath turned to see a small, human child staring at them from an open door across the road. Brolath waved and the child slammed the door shut, hiding from the aliens.

Shrugging, the two aliens made their way up to the obnoxiously colored trailer. They could hear a woman humming as Brolath knocked on the metal siding while Rorgh sat on the steps, keeping an eye out.

“Just a minute!" the voice was soft and ragged. Worn down by many years of hard toil and heartbreak, but never broken.

A minute was quite accurate, Brolath counted as part of his attempts at getting used to human time measurements, and a graying old woman with her hair covered in curling rolls appeared and flung the screen open.

“Tommy!" she stepped forward with otherworldly agility and wrapped her wrinkled arms around Brolath's chest. The old woman sneezed as Brolath's mane tickled her nose. “Land-sakes, son, you growing a beard? You hanging around with bikers? I woulda never let you go to Paris if I knew they got bikers!"

Brolath's tail flicked back and forth slowly as he struggled to respond.

“Oh, you got a dog!" she exclaimed, knees popping loudly as she bent over and pat Rorgh on the head. The Lupiad jumped a bit in shock and stared back at the old lady with concern radiating from his eyes. “Who's a good boy? Who's a good boy?"

Brolath cleared his throat, “Pardon me, I..."

“Tommy! You sound like you got a sore throat!" she immediately turned and entered into the depths of the mobile home. “I'll make you a hot toddy, come on in and make yourself at home!"

“Adjunct," Brolath whispered, tail lashing slowly as Brolath found himself lost in his thoughts, “what's going on?"

“The victim's name was Thomas Fontaine, I'm guessing Tommy is an affectionate name," the Lupiad snorted, “she thinks you're her son."

Brolath's ears perked, “I think I can use that."

Slowly entering the home, Brolath kicked some of the dirt off of his boots as Rorgh crawled in on all fours.

“Adjunct!" Brolath peered down the hall and past a fortress of old cardboard boxes. The old lady was in the kitchen filling up a kettle with water in front of a square window overlooking the lawn. Satisfied that she was deaf enough to the two of them, Brolath continued. “What the hell do you think you're doing."

“I'm playing the part she gave me!" Rorgh growled, peeling back his lips. “You're her son and I'm your pet dog. Don't include this on the report."

A sharp whistle rang out and the old lady called, “Here boy!"

As if he had prepared for this, Rorgh opened his mouth and let his tongue hang out and let out a series of friendly barks before scampering off to the kitchen. Brolath sighed and slowly made his way into the house.

Upon entering the kitchen, Brolath found Rorgh balancing a bone-shaped biscuit on his nose. Rorgh was whining pitifully and had his eyes crossed.

“Good boy!" the old lady said and snatched up the biscuit before tossing it into Rorgh's mouth.

“I missed you, Mother," Brolath said as he flopped down on a hideous, brown couch. “The...sights of Paris are breathtaking."

“I'll bet! How come you never sent me any postcards?" the old lady sat on wobbly chair across from Brolath and tapped her fingers to the side of her face. “I'm not blind you know! I've always wanted to see the Eiffel Tower, your Father did too!"

“Ah the...tower," Brolath leaned back and sighed, closing his eyes as if savoring the memories. In reality, he was struggling to remember if he had read anything about the Eiffel Tower or knew what it looked like. “I went to the top of it and it was beautiful!"

“Oh, son, I just knew it would be!" she smiled, exposing her teeth. Brolath had to remind himself that this was a friendly gesture on Earth, not an act of aggression. “So, you meet any nice girls over there, hm? Someone I should know about?"

“Ah, no," Brolath felt a bit at a loss. This was going nowhere, “no, I'm part of a bachelor pride an-"

Rorgh suddenly barked loudly.

“Shush!" the old lady shouted at Rorgh before turning back to Brolath with a confused look on her gray eyes. “I'm sorry, what did you say?"

“I'm..." Brolath looked at Rorgh and began speaking slowly, waiting for him to bark, “...a...bachelor…?"

Rorgh never barked and Brolath just about breathed a sigh of relief. Concerned still seemed to be on the old lady's face, but it was very hard to tell for Brolath, who wished humans had tall ears and tails like normal creatures.

“You'll meet a nice girl one of these days, you'll see!" her smile turned to a frown as she looked away. “But it wouldn't hurt getting rid of those awful tattoos!"

“The tattoos!" Brolath exclaimed. “Mother, I've been thinking of getting them removed! Do you have the address of the artist who did them?"

“Don't be silly!" the old lady laughed.

“What do you mean?"

“You know what I mean!" the kettle began to shriek and the old lady got up, taking it off of the gas burner. “Anyway, I think Pats only good at putting that awful ink on, not getting it out! You'd have better luck getting a doctor down in New Orleans for that!"

“Pat!" Brolath stood up and placed his paw on the old lady's shoulder, gently rubbing it. “Please, Mother, I need to see him, do you know where he is?"

The old lady suddenly paused, looking out the window. A scrawny, white human with a shaved head had just exited a trailer and was carrying crates filled with chemicals.

“Well speak of the devil!" the old lady flung open the window and called out. “Patty! You'll never guess who's home!"

Pat dropped the crate and began to sprint away, ducking behind the trailer.

“STOP!" Brolath growled and jumped onto the kitchen counter, sliding through the window past the old lady. He landed in a soft bush, which he quickly pushed his way out of and drew his pistol. “REGULIAN GUARD, STOP!"

Snarling and barking, Rorgh also jumped through the window and followed behind.

They rounded the corner of the trailer and followed the imprints of the suspects feet in the grass, along with the heavy sound of his breathing. People were starting to come out of their homes to stare at what was going on.

Passing another trailer, they caught sight of the suspect charging towards the road. Rorgh raised his pistol and barked, “STOP OR I"LL-"

“Don't!" Brolath gasped as they continued their chase. The humid air was wrecking havoc on their bodies. “Don't fire unless you have to! We're surrounded!"

It was impossible to ignore how many people were watching them now and although Brolath didn't see any weapons that didn't mean they didn't have them close at hand.

Despite neither of the two being ready for the climate, the alien's superior leg muscles allowed them to close the distance and soon Brolath leaped forward, grabbing the human by the shoulders and pinning him to the ground.

“Got you, you little prick!" Brolath growled inches away from the back of the human's neck.

“I didn't do anything, I swear!" Pat cried out.

“In the name of the Regulian Guard, you're under arrest," Brolath grabbed a pair of wrist-ties and bound the suspect's hands behind his back with them. “Refusal to cooperate is to betray the Empire!"

“Captain!" Rorgh cried out.

“I'm busy, Adjunct!" Brolath pressed the human's face into the dirt. “Tell you what, if you tell me what I want to know, you can be free by-"

“Captain!" Rorgh repeated. “Remember when you told me to wake you up when they brought out the guns?"

“Yes, Adj-"

Brolath got up to his feet and immediately saw what the fuss was about.

Across the street were several humans armed with shotguns.

A crack rang out.