From the comfort of the cushioned seat of Sergeant McKenzi’s SSFPD patrol vehicle, the preeminent businesswoman of Shalkar-stan watched a living episode of Cops (™) unfold.

Despite his size and age, McKenzi was a CQB Transmuter, meaning he was self-buffed, wand-drawn, and behind the open door in under two seconds.

“STEP AWAY FROM THE BODY.” McKenzi’s voice reverberated through the sordid, gore-slathered air of Turk and Hyde, bouncing off the brick facades and jarring the loose fire escapes. “DO IT NOW.”

The blood-covered perpetrator gazed toward their car, his face fully lit by the Day Light orb hovering overhead. More than anything, the man seemed annoyed that someone would take offence to his human-shaped late-night takeout.

“Dispatch, I’ve got an 11-44, southbound on Turk and Hyde, crime in progress, I am 10-31, perp in sight.”

The Message might have been silent on McKenzie’s end, but the Divi-Device in the car wasn’t nearly as silent. On reflex, Gwen tried the patrol car door. It was locked, but physical barriers were pointless against Mages trained in translocation.

“BACK AWAY, NOW. PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD and GET ON THE GROUND.” She saw McKenzi’s fingers flare with mana, lighting up the Glyphs at the base of his truncheon.

Before she could discern whether the Sergeant was the trigger-happy type, his perp slowly rose from the floor, unfurling himself like a ball of scrunched origami suspended in a flask of water.

Gwen’s brows knitted.

She knew that look.

She knew all too well the inexplicable hunger that could not be communicated through the face's stiff features but screamed from the rooftops through the predatory language of the body.

This was no druggie.

A Ghast?

No. It was a Ghoul.

But a Ghoul in the middle of San Francisco?

She had done a significant amount of homework before setting foot in the New World, but no academic reading or popular news had informed her that the Tenderloin would casually throw up a lower-middle-tier Undead.

“ON THE FLOOR—” McKenzi repeated his demand, reading off some invisible script inside his head. “OR I’LL—”

The Ghoul launched itself like a frog, offering no surprise for Gwen, but unwelcome news to the unlucky Sergeant. As a fine purveyor of war crimes against Juche and a War Mage who had wiped out six-figure worth of Mer Ghouls in her various tours, Gwen understood implicitly that Ghouls were capable of rudimentary thought, as per their prior life. However, the hunger that now made them effectively immortal was also beyond the control of baseline instincts like self-preservation. That was why Ghouls, unlike bog-standard Zombies, made for excellent shocktroops.

The pavement flashed. In the distance, sirens wailed ever closer.

Multiple lines of plasma, arm-thick and shot at maximum capacity with no intention to stun, materialised from McKenzi’s wand as living tongues. Like the clawed aglets of a cat-0-nine, the wand’s volatile energies licked the Ghoul as it lunged, scorching its hide, igniting its hair.

Too weak, Gwen observed as McKenzi steadied his footing, the Sergeant’s body growing suddenly large and jagged as his Earthen mana activated. It would have been better for the Earthen Mage to use the Wand’s HDM store rather than his off-Affinity mana, but there were probably resource protocols in place, or paperwork associated with spent HDM cartridges.

At any rate, a freshly fed Ghoul was full of vitality, offering it a small measure of spell resistance against low-tier Evocation.

With an ear-straining pitch of claw-on-metal, the twin contestants on Gwen’s reality-TV clashed. Much to her delight, McKenzi did not block with his body, but used the door of the patrol vehicle as a ram, suddenly shifting the barrier so that the Ghoul was struck firmly in the chest.

The glass shattered. Deformed metal flew from the point of impact.

While the Ghoul was still staggered, the Sergeant followed up with a mighty hay-maker, snapping the creature’s head almost a hundred and eighty degrees as its torso struggled to follow the momentum.

For a mortal creature, that should have been the end of it.

For an Undead, it wasn’t near enough.

Independent of anatomical inertia, its body scraped and scampered forward, raking wide gashes against the Sergeant’s Stone Skin. McKenzi swore loudly, then delivered a resounding kick to the Ghoul’s chest.

The thick thwomp sounded like a boxer hitting a sandbag, but the Ghoul retreated barely a meter before it was upon him again, this time going for McKenzi’s face. The officer was off-balance now, and it very much looked to Gwen that they would soon be rolling on the tarmac.

Not wanting to be involved so soon in a homicide, Gwen blinked.

She was inside the car, then, a flash of Conjuration later, she was outside. With her Affinity and after a near-decade of Dimension Doors, the only resources the spell required were mana and mental fortitude.

A halo briefly materialised overhead as Gwen allowed the viridescent energies of Almudj’s World Tree to suffuse her conduits. From the space between worlds, Ariel emerged, twice as tall as the Sergeant and as long as the patrol car. Beginning at the base of the Kirin’s horns, an arc of abjuring lightning leapt as a living creature between the goddess and the Ghoul.

The Ghoul erupted like a pestilent pustule.

Its necrotic energies were no match for the living lightning conjured by a divine Kirin. Like the untold multitudes of its peers that had fallen victim to the Lion of God, the very composition of its body revolted.

The resultant splatter marred the pavement, the Sergeant, and the tarmac like a paint grenade.

Gwen waved away her Gunther Shield and waited for the stunned officer to recover. She hadn’t actually intended for the Ghoul to disintegrate, but Ariel was reflexively conditioned to leave no quarter when fighting the Undead. After nine months in the Antarctic, the amount of energy needed to obliterate a foe beyond re-animation was ingrained into the Kirin’s psyche.

Sergeant McKenzi pulled himself up via the battered door.

He turned to face her, still running on pure adrenaline, only to stare slack-jawed at Ariel.

By that same measure, Gwen noted that many of the windows around them were now lit, for the inhabitants’ previously silent attention had been arrested by the inexplicable sense of warmth that radiated from a divine being.

The people of San Francisco were an enlightened folk, taught from birth that the Demigods of the Native Tribes were false idols. They were informed that these were mythos, stories and lies told to frightened children so that fearful pilgrims would venture into the woods to gather timber and protein. They had not, at any point in their lives, actually seen the living manifestation of the false idols the Thirteen Colonies hunted to extinction with their Faith Magic.

“That is… You are…” Sergeant McKenzi stammered. “Nazarene above…”

Ariel nuzzled Gwen’s cheeks with its moist, bulbous nose.

Gwen fed her pet a handful of Golden Mead, then approached the gore-soaked Sergeant.

“Here.” She materialized a shot glass, then offered its golden glow with a smile, for it certainly wouldn’t do for the Sergeant to suckle her Ariel-licked fingers. “Take a sip to prevent complications. You won’t know what transfer vectors the Ghoul-strain takes until your labs run the diagnostics. Say, does this happen often here, in the Tenderloin?”

Too overwhelmed to respond with rationality and drunk on the Kirin’s aura, the officer took the strange drink offered by the strange woman and swilled it with a tilt of his head.

“Er… no,” the Sergeant looked at his hands, struggling to understand the inexplicable mending of old aches, torn muscles and damaged organs taking place inside him. “What is… who are you? No. I know who you are. What are you?”

“I am just a—”

WHREEEEEE—SCREEEEEEECH—!

Three squad cars pulled up around them, with the officers instantly deploying behind their doors and vehicles, Wands drawn and eyes bright.

“STEP AWAY FROM THE SERGEANT.” A cold command split the hazy air, its scent still fetid with rot. “DISPEL YOUR FAMILIAR NOW.”

Gwen stepped back with a smile. She was a demure tourist, a pretty college student caught in the crossfire. Ariel placed itself between the officers and its Master, but otherwise kept its profile low.

“DISPEL YOUR—”

“LYLE! It’s fine.” McKenzi moved to stand between herself and the line of fire. “It’s resolved. There was a perp—a Tweaker of sorts. He may have been an Undead. He attacked me, and the young miss here eliminated the threat. DO NOT FIRE. I REPEAT. DO NOT FIRE.”

It took McKenzi three repetitions, louder each time, for his peers in the SSFPD to finally relax.

With the misunderstanding unwound, the newly arrived officers came closer to Gwen, drawn to the natural allure of Ariel’s divinity. Not surprisingly, the neighbourhood was also forming up around the previously abandoned corner.

Gwen scoffed. When there was a woman being eaten, possibly alive, the blinds were drawn and windows locked, but now that there was no threat, there was no dissuading the public from a good spectacle.

“Marcus, Lopez, establish a perimeter." Sergeant McKenzi was clearly the senior officer present, for the man took command as naturally as he breathed. “Wong, tell central we have an 11-44, high potential the suspect was an Undead.”

Gwen raised her hand. “Sergeant, I can tell you right now that was a Ghoul. Trust me, I would know.”

“Who the hell are you?” A younger officer with bleached blonde hair and a strapping upper body decked with Magi-tech implements stepped in to defend his Sergeant’s credibility. “You’re a coroner now, are you?”

“Wong, stand down.” McKenzi, having recovered his wits by now, was more wary of her than the splattered bits of Undead sticking to their shoes. “You’re speaking to her Grace, the Regent of Shalkar, V-VIP for the duration of her visit to San Francisco. You saw the cavalcade this morning, right? That’s for her. How do you not recognize the Kirin? It was in the briefing.”

Embarrassed but purring with pride, Gwen performed an ironic curtsey.

Ariel made a high-pitched, “Eee—Eee—” snickering at the constable.

Officer Wong’s complexion grew scarlet.

“It’s alright,” Gwen radiated compassion. After all, no one would expect “her Grace” to be in the Tenderloin, doing a tour of the city's underbelly. “I am glad that I was able to give Sergeant McKenzi a hand.”

“About that. Normally, we highly discourage vigilantism from the citizenry.” McKenzi was not about to let her off the hook. “But, this is not normal, and neither are you.”

“Please, just Gwen…” Now she was feeling self-conscious.

“Your Grace,” McKenzi leaned in. “I would offer you a drive back to your residence at Lafayette, but I will need to make a report and decontaminate myself. May I offer Officer Wong? Or I can inform Central to contact the Mayoral office.”

“I can fly back myself,” Gwen pointed toward Lafayette. At night, not even the Salesforce Tower’s illuminated body could penetrate the sprawling, irregular buildings that made up the Tenderloin’s urban Murk.

McKenzi’s left eye twitched as he moved her finger to the correct orientation. “I insist.”

Ariel laughed.

Gwen kissed the Kirin and bid it retreat to its Pocket Dimension. As much mana and effort as it took to house Ariel’s full glory, her Familiar was simply too conspicuous a creature to keep in the open, especially in an "enlightened" city like San Fran.

“I’ll go with Officer Wong. Here.” She decided to offer her card to the Sergeant, a rare artefact that was a living leaf of her World Tree, embossed with her personal Divi-Number, crafted in commemoration of the Ilias Leaf she never returned. “If you have any questions about the Undead, I can be of help.”

The Sergeant nodded, then stepped away from her, all the while barking orders to the new arrivals to establish perimeters and canvas the neighbourhood for clues as to where the Undead might have emerged.

Like the tentacles of the curious sea anemone, the rubberneckers suddenly disappeared as the police approached. Dematerialising as if by Dimension Door into their humble abodes.

As for the Regent, she soon found herself at the back of another patrol wagon, with another Officer of the law.

“2006, Washington. Opposite Lafayette Park,” she said to her new Uber driver. She had seen a lot, and her mind was made up. The schemes she had woven for the New World would proceed as planned.

The Ether Engine thrummed.

It was time for Dorothy to return to Kansas.

Dun-dun-do-do-de-do-dooo— A chirpy jingle played across Eleanor Hall’s Lumen projector.

“HEAT WAVE continues across the north, defying the expectant onset of winter. Geomancers report unusual activities of Wildland fauna, raising questions of a localized Beast Tide.”

“Hurricane warnings bite across the South Coast, raging winds paralyze parts of Florida, Carolina, Texas and Louisiana Orange Zones."

“BREAKING overnight! Neo Tenochtitlan enters the Everglades in a new amphibious assault! Never-before-seen Lumen-vids of the National Guard repelling Hydras from Honduras!”

“Deere Corporation recalls fifteen thousand FSJ5000 Agri-Golems after valve failures result in farm workers being cooked alive in the cockpit. Chief Executive Brian Bryce assures operators that the fault lies in improper training of staff.”

“COUNTDOWN to the Golden Lumen Awards Season. The World’s best Lumen Screen talents gather in the Beverly Hilton! Who will be crowned as The Union’s next sweetheart?”

The upbeat music faded as the illusory barrier dissolved, revealing the faces of three inexplicably happy, upbeat, and energetic anchors.

“GOOD MORNING— AMERICA—!” The hosts say in unison before switching to the leading man, a classically handsome, retro-attired middle-aged presenter with a haircut styled around 90s LEGO figures. “Oh boy, do we have a treat for you. Today, we will be taking you through the most exclusive penthouse in San Francisco on this glorious morning. We will also be interviewing The Regent of Shalkar herself, Gwen Song! After that, we’ll have the latest from the International Inter-University Competition currently dominated by Stanford, but first, let’s waste no time with the reason we’re all here—Here’s our special reporter, Eleanor Hall, speaking from 2006 Washington.”

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

Eleanor took a deep breath as her crew initiated the countdown. The recorded, edited version would be aired the next day on the East Coast, but that was the norm for any programming that originated on the West Coast and had to be physically transported between America’s twin domains.

Ahead and overhead, the Lumen-casters flickered into focus, their auto-projectors showing the performatively ecstatic figure of Eleanor Hall of TODAY USA.

Like a jazzed-up, Wind-up Buttercup, Eleanor began.

“Thanks, Ryan! Yes! I am here at THE Washington 2006, the most expensive real estate purchase in the city's modern history. Word on the street is that the Isle of Dog Norfolk Conglomerate bought it as a gift to their Goose with the Golden Eggs, the Regent herself. Behind me, you can see the atrium, with access to all ten floors of this historical building... If you follow me for a moment, do you see this intricately woven wallpaper? That’s not a painted mural, that’s hand-dyed silk from Burma. The doors as well, ancient mahogany from a tree well over a thousand years old, hand-stained by San Fran’s most-skilled artisans. The ceiling, as you can see, splits from the central dome into quarter-foil panes, enchanted for maximum natural lighting, interlocked to create a homely, yet Romanesque space in the style of the Georgians…”

As Eleanor worked her way upward, the rooms changed from guest rooms to offices to public function rooms, until, in the penthouse level, the Lumen-recorder was greeted by an eclectic collection of chaises and lounges worth more than Eleanor’s life, accented by artworks ranging from classical to modern.

Even so, Eleanor remained unimpressed, for the truly impressive figure was the young woman in the centre of the room, flanked by a bookish English Red Dragon and an oriental thug from the unmentionables, nodding to himself and mumbling to an invisible audience.

Exchanges were had, performative greetings were performed, and the two young men were gently persuaded to await their mistress in the smoking room of their spacious penthouse. Finally, Eleanor sat down to conduct the fated interview with what TODAY USA had headlined as “The Future of San Fran”.

The woman in question was in her early twenties, but could easily be mistaken for a fresh-faced teen starlet at the Hilton Beverley. Eleanor had already shared a pre-interview briefing with the Regent, yet even so, the Regent’s choice of fashion made her gasp and swallow.

Gwen’s look, Eleanor had to admit, would soon infest West Coast’s high society. Unlike the couture of local designers, there was a living quality to what was an otherwise simple sleeveless halter-top that ended above the knee. It was a quality that even Eleanor, who had plied her living by finding the right words, struggled to describe. So svelte was the living fabric that flowed around the Regent’s slim figure that Eleanor felt an inexplicable sliver of sublimity, like the fleeting wonder of seeing falling leaves while hiking among ancient maples.

A room had been readied for them beside an uninterrupted vista of the Golden Gate Bridge, and it was here that Eleanor began her new career as the official promoter of her bosses’ boss.

Starting from her arrival and her impression of San Fran, their topics ventured from the city, its food, its people, the Regent’s expectations of her many ventures, and finally, to the meat and bones of the interview—the Dyar Morkk.

“As we all know, one piece of unhappy news is Shalkar’s conflict with Magister William of the Massachusetts Institute of Thaumaturgy and his patents pertaining to the control mechanism of the Low Ways.”

“Let me stop you there, Ellen.” The Regent’s exquisite face frowned. “I believe there was a misunderstanding from the very beginning. I couldn’t get a word in overseas, but I am here now, and I can’t in good faith let a falsehood slide.”

While it made perfect sense that the Regent of a world-famous economic trade consortium would be a perfect interviewee, it was still shocking to Eleanor that a woman of the Regent’s age was ad-libbing punchline after punchline without so much as an “Um”.

“You see, Magister John C William is my employee. He’s also my friend and confidant. He was under contract with the IoDNC, not the Massachusetts Institute of Thaumaturgy, when we began work on the Dyar Morkk. This was all the way back in 2006, long before Shalkar existed. Of course, no one knew what the Dyar Morkk was at the time, and fewer cared that it had existed long before Humanity built its first cities. Magus William understands this, and he and I are, therefore, merely a connecting cog in a well-oiled machine that has been working for hundreds of thousands of years. Therefore, the question was never ‘does the Gilt Motor Corporation own a chunk of the Regent’s Dyar Morkk, but rather, could they possibly have a claim to a minor interface system that opened up the Dyar Morkk for Human use?’ The answer to that, I am afraid, is absolutely not.”

And why is that? Eleanor followed up expertly.

“Well, when an employee is paid to work on a project, using the company’s resources for that project, using my personal favours with Demi-humans both above and below ground for his assigned project, does the result belong to their academy of origin? After all, no university has claimed the works of America's great playwrights, poets, and Lumen-crafters, have they? The playwright Arthur Fitzwilliams once completed a PhD in classical American Lit via Harvard, does that give Harvard the rights to Death of an Illusionist?”

Eleanor nodded before tossing her employer’s employer a few more softball questions. Around them, the Lumen-recording crew took note of the Regent’s front page potential, levitating their cinema-spec recorders to capture how prettily their disappointed Regent disseminated propaganda.

How easy it is for the rich to make their woes known. Eleanor felt her heart tighten with envy. Her parents were both highly skilled Mages, yet they made sacrifices to elevate Eleanor to a position of relative comfort. Meanwhile, most of the city was just hanging on, wondering if there was a better tomorrow, while the oligarchs butted heads over who should take credit for the inventions they pilfered from their employees.

“So the Shalkar Conglomerate will welcome any legal challenges, while we, in our natural place, shall roll out the expansion of the Dyar Morkk here in San Francisco. I have the blessing of the Mayoral office and, most importantly, that of Tower Master Cèsar Magnusson of Salesforce, our partners in transforming this historical city. Meanwhile, Tower Master Eric Gilt is sans Magi-tech, sans legality, and sans Dwarven Foundry. He is welcome to dig his own Dyar Morkk. Let it not be said that the Regent of Shalkar seeks to hold a monopoly! We shall welcome any competing enterprises if they wish to also establish a global enterprise of underground spatial networks that’s beloved, safe, and affordable."

The way the Regent delivered the boast with a twinkle in her eye made Eleanour genuinely laugh, which didn’t happen very much in these glaze pieces.

What the Regent said next, however, almost made her fall out of her seat.

“I am proposing that the Shalkar Trade Consortium will construct the city’s very first multi-tier, multi-use Geo-front in the Tenderloin.”

“That’s quite the proposal, Regent.” Eleanor found herself sliding from the co-signed pilot script, much as the Regent did. “The Tenderloin is untamable. Perhaps, if you visited the place first.”

“Untamable? Oh, how little you know of Shalkar’s origins.” The Regent laughed, her shoulders shaking ever so alluringly. “I firmly believe in the will of the American people and the American Dream.”

And just what would you know of Americans? Eleanor thought, but could not voice them. Her face remained smiling nonetheless. “I do believe it.”

“In that same vein.” The Regent’s smile took on a different quality. “I have another announcement. As you know, the Shalkar Trade Consortium comes with its own capital in developing San Francisco’s Low-way Geo Front. The week before my arrival, I spoke extensively with the stakeholders in your city.

Consequently, having seen your beautiful people and the world-class potential they possess, I have decided to open the Second Phase of the Geofront project to public and private investments. The San Francisco Shalkar Conglomerate—SFSC—is the name under which this entity will operate. Its existence will be pure, serving as a credit-lending finance corporation, with its market cap as equity.

As a Credit Union, the SFSC will assess and lend to any parties, public or private, large or small, who seek to expand, acquire and develop the infrastructure of the West Coast Dyar Morkk “Silk Road”. Mind you, as we speak, the Dyarr Morkk has connected the UK, Central Europe, South-East Asia, Southern China, Kyushu-Japan, South Korea, East-coast Australia and New Zealand to continental America. In its decade-long development cycle, the SFSC shall enrich every nation it touches, as well as reconnect humanity in ways not possible since before the Beast Tide.”

The strategic-class spells were dropping one after another now, so quickly that Eleanor could barely keep up. They were now free flying from the original script, though everyone in the penthouse apartment seemed utterly enthralled and engaged by the promise of being the very first to grasp the keys to financial liberation.

As a valedictorian of Caltech, Eleanor had excelled in its generalist courses and so understood implicitly exactly what The Regent of Shalkar was promising. Her only question, one that she did not dare ask, was what happens when a partner like Salesforce tries to hog profits for itself.

“And we shall have something for our friends at the firms, banks and consultancies as well,” the Regent continued with nonchalance. “To reward our future friends, the SFSC will create a new financial derivative. We will give your institutions a firm boost of VMI through a proven credit instrument developed by the Hong Kong Shanghai Banking Corporation. This will be called Credit Derivatives. In short, the SFSC will offer to purchase your credit risk on your companies’ loans and mortgages as credit default swaps, freeing up capital.”

Eleanor felt her hands grow into Mermen fins. Was the regent offering to buy debt? To buy… insurance? On the debt default of potential rivals? She was freeing up their capital to…

Her eyes grew suddenly large.

The Regent… was using her capital to free up the capital of the banks and firms here in San Francisco… so that with this freed capital… they would purchase shares in the SFSC, and thereby the Dyar Morkk? Then, with her equity fully engorged, was she going to swallow more debt? Free up more investment capital and…

Such audacity!

Such promises of sweet nothings!

An oroborous of GREED!

Such… irresponsibility!

The Regent was hoping…

no. The Regent did not need to rely on hope.

Even if this were a leap into the Niagra, no true American corporation could resist such an obvious opportunity to double or triple its market cap overnight. To NOT take the risk was to be overtaken. Any investment firm that sought to avoid the Regent’s offer will find itself at the end of a hostile acquisition within six months.

When this interview airs.

Every financial company in San Francisco will conduct an audit of its debts.

When the interview finally aired in New York, entire workforces would be made to work hundred-hour weeks.

Even if The Tenderloin were to become a giant Dwarf-made sinkhole and disappear forever, the city’s stakeholders would push for the Regent to take every measure she desired, so long as the SFSC is placed upon the stock market, backed by the Dyar Morkk’s trade bank.

Eleanor stared in wondrous horror at the woman called Gwen Song.

On her ochre throne, wrapped in Texan Auroch leather, with the brilliant blue of San Francisco Bay behind her, the Regent of Shalkar seemed to be surrounded by a brilliant halo.

“Thank you... very much,” Eleanor felt like she was speaking from the Fifth Vel even as her mind unconsciously altered the script’s final verses. “Until next time... this is her Grace, the Prophet of Profits, our Priestess of the Golden Bull—the Regent of Shalkar.”

San Francisco.

Pacific Heights.

The next day.

With her publicity wrapped, the Prophet of Profits wore Ts and jeans more befitting her age. At the enormous, twenty-seat-long dinner table, she sat beside her companions and advisors, enjoying a spot of afternoon tea.

“So then, this Ghoul just straight tried to mount Sergeant McKinzi,” she finally finished explaining her midnight adventure. “What do you think? Opinions?”

To her opposite sat Tao, whose interest was in the enormous Reuben sandwich Gwen had commissioned from one of the best bakeries in the city. Stored in a special Storage Ring under stasis, the highly rated meat-filled monstrosity had been delivered by one of Gwen’s many Shadow Mages.

Less conspicuous than the anthropomorphic peach was, ironically, her bookish companion, the Red Dragon Slylth, who had by now changed his attire to resemble an underfed James Dean. This was no surprise, because the Dragon’s entire schtick involved role-playing humanity, while not fully understanding the nuances of Human culture.

Further down the table were the people responsible for her enterprise, Sir Dominic Lorenzo of METRO, “Lord” Ed Hawthorne of London, Phillipe Johnson of InterRepublic, and Elisa-Shay Dunn of Elling-Gibson Dunn, behind which stood their aides and assistants.

“The SSFPD will take care of it, I am sure,” the CEO of InterRepublic, responsible for the Regent’s enormously successful publicity stunt, spoke over a modest portion of Fifth Vel caviar on Shalkar-sourced crackers. The man had been over the moon since the interview had sent the city's financial institutions into a feeding frenzy over something that did not, and shall not exist for at least a month. “It's not as though they need to step around the people living in the Tenderloin. A lockdown, a Purge, no more than ten blocks, and we’ll be right as rain.”

“I concur. By and large, the Americas are not prone to prolonged Undead outbreaks,” Elisa-Shay, “Esse” for short, added her two cents. “We wiped out the local worshippers of Necromancy after the Civil War, and again after the Beast Tide. Isolated incidents remain a regular occurrence, as a result of the city… being a hive of misery here and there. Still, I am proud to say we are free from cultists and occultists alike, Voodooism not withstanding…”

“And say there’s an outbreak,” Phillipe wiggled his brow conspiratorially. “We got our own zealots here as well. The Latter Day Defenders of the Church of the Nazarene, they call themselves. If there’s Undead anywhere, you can expect the Church to make their move, and trust me, we’ll know if they make a move.”

Mormons, here? Gwen could not help but hold her teacup closer to her chest. And they’re Abraham Lincoln, Undead Hunters? She very much wanted to see how the local zealots lived, considering Faith Magic wasn’t just a colourful sermon. What would happen if Elvia met them? Would they have a cat-fight?

“It’s a long story.” Phillipe caught her incredulity with a laugh. “I am entirely serious, your Grace. I’ve spoken to their er… Revelator? Their Faith is on a whole other level and flavour when compared to England’s Ordos. Finding and erasing an actual Undead infestation would be something of a… umm…hmm…”

“Rapture?” Gwen raised a fork.

The wizened marketing exec snorted. “Excellent description, your Grace.”

“Just Gwen, Phil.” She had already repeated herself a dozen times, but after the broadcast, people were looking at her slantwise and refusing to call her by her natural name. “So this is nothing? It’s a nothing burger?”

“I don’t like it.” Lord Hawthorne, peer to her dear Ravenport, rapped the table with his knuckles. “We take our Undead incidents seriously in England. VERY seriously.”

“And yet, we’re not in England,” Dominic Lorenzo chimed in. “Gwen is still a War Mage, as is yourself, if you were to reinstate your old title. We can’t just operate here on someone else's land. We’re effectively just guests on business VISAs. Only Gwen has near-immunity, but even so, that’s a presumption more so than a fact. Trusting the system is all we can do. The Union has come this far without an Undead outbreak, right?”

“An outbreak would be catastrophic for business,” Phillipe spoke a little more seriously, “heads will roll if it's actually neglected. We can trust that they know this.”

Gwen wasn’t sure she trusted anything, but Lorenzo was right. They were far too busy to deal with local Necromancy.

“Gwen?” The bored voice belonged not to the table, but to Peaches. “Yo, could you send me to Orkland? I got biz there, wanna check out the scene, ya know? Ya’ll keen?”

The rest of the table grew uncomfortably silent. Esse rolled her eyes.

“I am so sorry I can’t come with you at the moment, Tao,” Gwen apologised. She truly did feel guilty that she couldn’t do for Tao what she had imagined all those years ago. “Tell you want, I can send two Shadow Mages with you while you tour the place. Spend what you need, just stay safe.”

“Your Grace, Oakland isn’t The Tenderloin, but it’s… not exactly Lafayette,” Phillipe, who was well connected with the city’s many places, interjected with a cough. “I wouldn’t trust a young lady like yourself to walk unaccompanied at night in the neighbourhood Mister Tao is trying to access. If Mister Tao, a complete stranger, presents himself as... himself, I don’t doubt the outcome.”

“Dawg, game recognises game, keen?” Tao replied cryptically.

“What I mean is,” Phillipe replied warmly. “I know of people who could safely take Mister Tao through the area, allow him to meet with the er… artists he wishes to meet. I can arrange that, if you like.”

“I would like that very much. Tao?” Gwen felt relief. Unlike her university days, she can’t just show up in a short skirt to open doors for Tao.

“Yo—This bitch be dope,” her cousin threw the man a gang sign. “Let’s get MADE, homie.”

“Nazerene in his high heaven.” Lord Hawthorne touched a hand to his brow. “I can’t believe I am saying this, but I am actually glad Robert isn’t… isn’t Mr Wang.”

Robert, Gwen understood, was Hawthorne’s son. Where his peers’ children were Captains, Commanders and Magisters, his son’s career was cut short after a grossly negligent mishap. The boy was only alive, Hawthorne had explained to Gwen, because of the nepotism shown by his commander, Lord Quinn Ravenport of Galbritar.

“Please arrange this, Phillipe. That’s very kind,” Gwen motioned with her fingers, conjuring two of Richard’s most loyal Shadow Mages from Manipur. “Protect Mr Wang, will you? Keep him from trouble, but only if something’s going to break.”

“I’ll send a car,” her fellow board member spoke silently to the air, then to Tao. “It’s done, Mister Wong. You may proceed at your leisure.”

Peaches delivered a thankful nod, threw an obligatory gang sign, then left the room for the elevator. The “Smoke” Mages, decked from crown to toe in trinkets from the House of M, bowed to Gwen, then faded from sight.

The display was not a show of power, but it manifested as such, affirming the formality of “Your Grace.”

“Right, are we ready to fly?” The next to speak was Slyth, who was much more patient than her cousin. “You said you wanted to visit this place, Palo Alto?”

“I did indeed.” Gwen pulled back from her chair. “Gentlemen, ladies, are we all aware of our roles and responsibilities going forward?”

Her partners acknowledged the SFSC ignition phase and the obscene greed it would create, enough to make each of them loathed and beloved in every continent.

Gwen extended a hand to her Red Dragon.

The young man took it.

“Let's go,” Gwen announced to the general air, her mind already hovering over the vast blue yonder of San Francisco Bay, beyond which she had dreamt of meeting alter-world manifestations of pioneers of her old reality. There was a visionary man whose trajectory had touched her greatly in the old world, and she would want nothing more than to meet that man, if he existed, in her present world. “Let’s see if there really is an old English cottage out there in the hills of Palo Alto.”