Reluctantly Hawk rolled, raising a wing against the morning light falling down through the alleyway at him. He looked up, squinting, to find two men in uniforms standing above him.

They were wearing all blue, with guns belted to their sides, and badges glinting from their chests. One was stringy and pale, with a mean, sharp face and gingery hair; the other was heavyseat and darker skinned, completely bald but sporting a thick iron-gray mustasche. They glared down at him. Hawk swore inwardly.

"Sign says 'no dumping,' freak," the skinnier of the two said snidely. "So why's there a pile 'a trash here?"

"On your feet," the other man said, "Let's see your registration card."

Across the street, against a lamp post, another man stood. He was the only one watching raptly; people passed by without noticing the green patrol car sitting on the curb across the way, or the officers confronting Hawk, who stood against a wall.

The man took a sip of something not entirely unlike Coca-Cola, and waited.

"I don't have one," Hawk said after a minute.

"Ha! Here illegally, huh?" the skinnier officer snapped eagerly. Hawk glared down at them--he was nearly a foot taller than either of the officers.

"No, I ain't," he retorted, "my name's Hawk Press. I'm from Violetta."

The officers exchanged a look.