2030, Metro Chief Warrents Office, Ivansburg City, The Moon

Metro Police Chief Warrens rubbed the bridge of his nose and let the pages of his report fall from his fingers. The setting sun crashed into the capitol city skyline and left an orange haze in its wake, dancing on particles of dust between the wooden shutters. The chief's office is deceptively warm, given its utility. The hardwood floor was accented by a burnt sienna rug, bleeding into the bright cherry and red leather furniture. Parapets of bookshelves exploding with hardbound files and old world books speak of a man with legal ambitions. But Warrens' attention is focused on the quivering young mass occupying the overstuffed chair across from him. Thirty minutes before his left his department, life had seen fit to present him with one last political puzzle.

Officer Roland, elsewhere, is a cacophony of tubes and gauze, floating on stretcher through the stone hallways of the Ivansburg City Hospital eyed wearily by sawbones and strapped to the table. Bound, gagged, and roughly handled the ghoul is carefully dropped in the incinerator. The trains return to their schedule, overloaded for the delay. The only knot left to tie is young Edward - overeducated, underemployed, deserving of reward. Time crawls toward the five o'clock hour, and Department Chief Harris shrugs, exasperated. He couldn't in good conscience let the boy who saved his best man's life walk away empty handed.

"How do you fancy a life in the country?"

("Beer 'n a Shot" Edward will request in two hours, parting with a few precious dollars, wrapping his mind around the prospect of life as a copper. Years of study to end up a blue meanie on the beat with pay to match in some random farming town on the other side of the sea of tranquility. Tobacco, of all things. He is a natural philosopher, for goodness sakes. But, well, down the hatch. Things are supposed to get worse before they get better. It's only a year. Go back to school on the back of bribes. Ain't no harm. Ain't none of his classmates doing better. Ain't nothing to keep him in this bullshit town. Down the hatch. Better go home and pack. He knows he is lucky, but the slope of his spine and shuffle in his step looks like a man on his way to the salt mines.

and, well, he is.)

Rate of Pay, benefits, risks, and location spill across the desk, and Edward signs his name, smiles, and says thank you and kicks his heels as he walks to the bar to smilingly drown the sorrows of the miles of difference between promise and reality.