Brick lived in a little tenement on the border of Eshreet and Brentish, which local residents dubbed, The Lowlands, a residential expanse of four miles which included a bizarre concoction of working class and wannabe middle-class. The stepping stone of between middling to comfortable.

It was made up of apprentice solicitors and bankers, rookies for the various district Watches. Padres in training, or high powered businessmen who didn't feel the need to squander their capital on mediocre flats and basic tenements, saving their personal fortunes for future gain away from the monotonous lifestyle that Testament had to offer. Cheap housing - yet comfortable for the prospective ilk.

Brick pulled up just down the street from his home and escorted Bliss through a couple of backstreet alleys that led to the back of the complex. He didn't really care if he was seen, but it mattered if Bliss was. A new face meant people would blab and chatter and quite frankly Brick could do without all the accusing eyes of a woman skulking in his apartment. But she was right! Bliss was still a loose end and the Watch had been compromised. As he himself.

He just needed a day.

Bring Gustaf Felstrom to heed.

And probably knock seven shades of hell out of him as well. Just because he could.

Godrich Felstrom was no saint. The boy had dabbled in drugs - he felt the inside of his jacket to make sure the case was still there, it was - got himself caught up in some kind of personal vendetta against someone with murderous intent. Maybe the case was simple, perhaps it was Gustaf. If that was the case then the investigation was a done deal, no need for a Mapper to get his hands dirty. The only thing Xindii could do was put this cunt in Reverie and high-tail it back to Varosium where he belonged.

But was it that black and white?

Maybe Bliss was right!

Bliss had never met this Gustaf. Godrich had never mentioned him. Why murder his brother now? He had to start ticking some things off the list.

Brick opened the door to his cosy little tenement and ushered Bliss in. He immediately walked toward the curtain and pulled it aside carefully, scanning for any curious eyes. Satisfied he pulled it back and lit a cigarillo.

'Pensive aren't we?'

He laughed. 'Force of habit, when you've been putting crims away as long as I have you always check the street outside. Someone is always pissed and money speaks volumes.'

She sat down on the massive beige couch which was the size of a king-size bed and sighed. 'I suppose you going to tell me you sleep with a gun under your pillow next.'

'No, I sleep with two.'

Bliss shook her head in bewilderment. 'How many people have you pissed off in your time?'

'I lost count in my first year of joining the Watch.'

'And before?' she asked.

'Army. Frugalmeyer territorials.'

'Bet they loved you.'

Brick just looked at her blankly. No sparkling gems. Just a plateau of stoicism.

He took a drag on the cigarillo and offered Bliss one. She took it willingly and noticed a lighter on the surprisingly clean table. She lit the cigarillo and inhaled deeply, exhaling with a satisfying relish. The flat was calm, soothing.

Brick stood behind the couch. 'There's milk in the fridge. Bread in the cupboard. Stay away from my whiskey . . .'

She laughed. 'I get the hint. No whiskey.'

'I better go. Things to do. Just . . . relax. Don't open the door. To anyone bar me.'

She nodded repeatedly. 'Brick, I get the picture.'

She could hear his moss-brows rising on his forehead. She turned about on her bum, biting her bottom lip. 'Sorry, Inspector.'

He slowly walked over to the door and reached into his trench coat and pulled the case out and placed it on the kitchen worktop. 'I'm leaving this here. I won't need it tonight.'

She nodded. 'Ok. Fine.'

He opened the door and stood there for a moment longer, gazing at the back of her head. 'No whiskey.'

Bliss leaned over with her head in her hands and the Krazzi pulled the door to.

Brick climbed into the scarred tank of his car and immediately drove in the direction of Brentish. It was going to be a long night, or morning as the case may be. He checked his watch and realised that it was nearly midnight. 

The archivist at the Watch would not be there. Not until morning. Mid-morning knowing Gentry the old fool. He would be better served heading to city library. There probably wasn't any librarians handy at this late hour but he knew some of the night guards. One in particular, his old desk sergeant, Whittaker Seams. He had an admiration for the man.

Four Folds ago while on duty at his desk an inebriated Hotch man had decided to throw some abuse at a young couple who had just had their car broken into. It was none of the Hotch's damn business but he had been brought in for being disorderly and pissing off the bridge of Yu-ran-taa in broad daylight. The young constable - wet behind the ears and in the brain - had forgotten to search the reprobate as he waited to be processed. In the meantime he felt fit to harass the young couple, particularly the woman. When asked to sit down and behave he grew violent, kicking chairs and beating the young boy as his partner watched.

Whittaker stepped in and tried to reason with the Hotch man but to no avail. They fought and struggled and Whittaker had gained the upper hand, wrestling the cunt to the floor as other constables and sergeants raced to his aid. The Hotch man relaxed and succumbed to their might, and as they relaxed the pissed Hotch pulled a knife from his sleeve and slammed it into Whittaker's lower back, damaging his sciatic nerve. Whittaker's Constables didn't hold back and beat the putrid piece of shit black and blue, where two days later he died in Church.

Nothing was said.

And if you asked the Commodore he would drag you into his office with tidal force where you never would again.

Whittaker had mended and healed but was never the same again. And so he came to the library to be among books and learning and to guard its secrets. He was a good man.

Brick pulled up to the steps leading up to the vast building of City Library. Grand columns lined the front while gas lit torches hung decoratively along the promenade, illuminating the house of learning even in the late hours.

The Krazzi quickly lit a cigarillo as he made his way up the titanic steps quickly puffing on the intense hit of the Bramble weed. He threw it aside as he neared the entrance and delicately knocked on the thin glass of the door, plumes of smoke still seething from craggy moss filled nostrils.

The old man looked up from his desk and peered over the top of his glasses and smiled. He pulled himself up from his reading and moved awkwardly around the desk with his ring of keys, hobbling on his walking stick. He approached the door and opened it, beckoning his old friend in.

'Inspector Brick, to what do we owe the pleasure at this late hour? Happy though I am to see you.'

'Can't sleep. Guessed some bed time reading may be the ticket.'

The old man leaned on his stick, hobbling slightly. 'Well, you've come to the right place. Although, your bed time reading will be a lot to be desired I'm sure.'

The Krazzi just looked at him with his trademark eyebrows and Whittaker beckoned him over to the desk.

They both sat down and the old desk sergeant poured them both a coffee.

'So, what brings you to my library, Inspector?'

'Your library is it?'

Whittaker shrugged. 'Well, do you see any librarians at this late hour? Someone has to put all the stories to sleep . . .'

Whittaker could see the turmoil on his friends face. Not many could, not with the famous Krazzi detective, only those with a keen eye and a modicum of intelligence.

'. . . Something weighs on you heavy, my old friend. What is it? Are you on the Godrich case?'

'You always did have your ear to the ground.'

'People talk, even in libraries. Sometimes their voices carry. Plus, well, it's in the papers.'

The two old friends smiled.

'I hate Mappers. What the hell happened to a good old fashioned murder? Crimes of passion, body under the patio, hooker in a trunk. None of this damn dream shit.'

'Come now, my friend. They have become a necessity and you know it. Even here at the end of time and space the world is still changing. New beliefs, new sciences. New religions and ideas that can shake us to the core and leave us none the wiser. Stand with these Mappers, Brick. They understand such things and if they can save lives and make head or tail of these things then the Watch must be seen to help them . . . No matter how much we hate it.'

Brick nodded his head. Damn him. The old bugger always had a way of showing you the light.

'Who is it?'

'Xindii,' the Krazzi replied. 'Extravagant little prick.'

'I don't know him,' Whittaker said, 'but I'm sure he knows what he is doing.'

The Inspector nodded solemnly.

They both took a sip of their coffee and Whittaker continued.

'So, what do you need of us, old friend?

'The boy, Godrich. He was a child of House.'

'Ah, fascinating.'

'I have been to the House. It showed me Godrich's birth and that of his unknown sibling. I have reason to believe the brother, Gustaf murdered his parents and tried to kill Godrich's lover.'

'You think Gustaf killed Godrich but you're not certain?'

'There is something else! When Gustaf was born he had black pupils. Jet black, pitch. What was that?'

'A mutation in the codex, possibly. Think of Godrich's lineage as a story. They were the first of their kind. In a way, a new race. Possibly the first of the Sub-Humans. And over many generations and many stories that lineage gathered onto itself more stories; more DNA to add to the codex. Over thousands of years, millions in fact, mutations have been added to the mix. Not always noticeable. Some subtle, hidden within the mind or beneath the skin. Some evident, like Gustaf. It couldn't have been easy for the boy. Ridiculed in the playground. Maybe scorned by his parents . . . or brother. Children can be the most ferocious of beasts.

'We are all mutations in the end. Millions of years of evolution has corrupted us. Or evolved us whichever stand point you wish to choose.'

Brick took another sip from his coffee and Whittaker did the same.

'I swear you didn't know all this stuff back in the day,' remarked the Inspector.

The old desk sergeant smiled and waved his fingers around the library. 'What do you think I do every night? The crossword?'

'That's all you used to do,' the Krazzi joked.

Whittaker picked up today's copy of the Daily Construct and whacked the stone detective around the head with it. The only man in the world who would dare and get away with it.

'There's something else?'

'I should charge by the hour.'

'You should . . . I need to find a car.'

'Finally, you are getting rid of that heap of crap.'

Brick shook his head. 'A Rolls Royce Phantom. An ancient piece of kit. Where would I find it?'

'Well firstly the only people to afford such a luxury would be Lords or Ladies. If there are any in Testament at all.'

'Well that's just it, I need to do some digging to find out?'

'Is it imperative to the case?'

'It could be. It could either lead me to Gustaf, or it could lead me up the garden path. Either way, I have to find out.'

Whittaker nodded and pulled himself up from the chair, Brick held his back and arm, guiding the old sergeant to a more level footing.

'Come then, Inspector. Let's find your mystery car.'

The two old friends made their way up a small flight of steps into the vast labyrinth of ancient books and newspaper clippings. Tomes rescued from the depths of countless galaxies. Stories written in blood and ink, scrolls and parchments rescued from extinction and entropy. Gospels from planets long gone preserved in zero gravity chambers to preserve their beliefs.

'How's the back these days,' asked the Inspector.

'Oh you know. Good days and bad days . . . mostly bad.'

'I'm sorry.'

'Too late for all that. What's done is done.'

The two old friends meandered down the old newspaper aisle and sifted through old yellowed pages of musty clippings. Whittaker opened a draw with one of his keys and produced a folder marked 'VINTAGE ROADSTERS'.

Brick looked at him seriously. 'You have a file named 'Vintage Roadsters?'

'Indeed I have. And lucky for us it isn't very big. Like I said, whoever has the money to own one of these delights must certainly be high born or just plain stinking rich.'

'Why would someone own a piece of shit like this anyway?'

'That's what Testament is, my friend. The last outpost separating us from the eternal dark. People want to enjoy the last days doing what they desire. Some will read,' he said, pointing off to the various alleys and steps of the library, 'Some will take companionship and walks in the country. Some will work to the bone and think nothing of it. Some enjoy art and music. Some, if they have the money will enjoy ancient automobiles and their inherent beauty. The attributes of creation cherished in the last days. It gives them something to hold on to as the dark approaches. And stops them from losing their minds. Testament to creation and free will.'

'Testament,' remarked the detective.

'It's quite apt really. Man and beast has been afraid of the dark for eons and eons but we always knew we could wake in the morning and see a new day. One day, one day soon, there will be no more days . . . that's why, Augustus Pendragon took solace in his automobiles!'

Whittaker held a press clipping from over fifty years ago. Brick snatched the old yellow paper from his hands and read the article.

'Lord, Augustus Pendragon to stand for election as head of the Socialist Party, and oh, shit me a brick, look behind him . . .'

'. . . Your mystery Rolls Royce Phantom.'

'If it is the right one?'

'It will be,' remarked the old man.

'And how the hell are you so sure?'

'Because, Detective Inspector, at the bottom in very fine small print it says 'Augustus Pendragon standing next to his unique vintage Rolls Royce Phantom' . . . Emphasis on the unique I think . . . Do you need glasses, old man?'

Whittaker looked at the Krazzi, lost in deep thought. 'Inspector?'

The Krazzi looked deep into the shadows of the stacks. 'Pendragon? Why does that ring a bell?'

Whittaker looked at the clipping again. 'Augustus Pendragon, father to Gwendolyn. Baroness Gwendolyn Pendragon. Now leader of the Socialist Party if my politics serve.'

'Of course, I thought she looked familiar.'

Whittaker placed his hand on the Krazzi's massive shoulder. 'Come on, it's late. I have some whiskey in my drawer.'

The old sergeant started to head off back down the stacks, hobbling and muttering and Brick looked at the clipping again.

'Godrich's lover. Gwendolyn . . . what the hell were you into?'